GIFT   OF 
Professor  G.    R*    Noyes 


I 


FAMILIAR    TALKS 


ON    SOME  OF 


SHAKSPEARE'S     COMEDIES. 


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FAMILIAR  TALKS 


ON    SOME    OF 


Shakspeare's  Comedies. 


BY 


ELIZABETH    WORMELEY    LATIMER. 


THE    WINTER'S    TALE.  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 

THE    TEMPEST.  AS    YOU  LIKE  IT. 

MIDSUMMER    NIGHT'S  DREAM.        TWELFTH  NIGHT. 
TAMING    OF   THE    SHREW.  THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

CYMBELINE. 


BOSTON: 

ROBERTS    BROTHERS. 

1886. 


?3^ 


Copyright^  i88b, 

By  Roberts  Brothers. 


Santfteraftg  ^rcss: 
John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridge. 


PREFACE. 


THESE  Parlor  Lectures  were  given  in  Balti- 
more, to  a  large  and  appreciative  class  of 
ladies.  In  examining  great  masses  of  Shakspearian 
criticism  during  their  preparation,  I  was  surprised 
to  find  how  little  of  the  same  kind  of  work  has  been 
done.  We  have  (besides  Hudson  and  Dowden) 
Hazlitt's  characters,  which  are  very  brief;  Coleridge's 
inestimable  notes,  which  too  often  are  mere  jottings ; 
Maginn's  papers,  which  I  find  a  little  strained ;  Ger- 
vinus,  who  writes  with  Teutonic  care,  insight,  and 
heaviness  ;  Richard  Grant  White,  whose  most  fin- 
ished essay  is  on  a  play  not  included  in  this  volume; 
Christopher  North,  whose  sparklets  of  Shakspearian 
criticism  are  scattered  up  and  down  old  volumes  of 
Blackwood ;  Mrs.  Jameson's  most  excellent  •"  Char- 
acteristics of  Women  ;  "  Lady  Martin's  recent  letters 
on  some  of  Shakspeare's  female  characters;  and  a 
series  of  papers,  still  incomplete,  in  the  English 
"Monthly  Packet"  (edited  by  Miss  Yonge),  called 
"  Shakspeare  Talks  with  Uncritical  People,"  by  Con- 
stance O'Brian.     There  are  also  notes  to  all  editions 

8R41 P3 


vi  Preface. 

of  the  plays ;  besides  which  a  great  deal  of  fugitive 
Shakspearian  criticism  —  of  the  kind  I  wanted  —  can 
be  found  in  magazines,  inaccessible  for  the  most  part 
to  the  general  reader.  To  all  these  I  acknowledge 
the  greatest  obligations,  in  trying  to  do  for  each  play 
as  a  whole  what  Mrs.  Jameson  and  Lady  Martin  have 
done  for  its  heroine.  To  the  erudite  who  write  for 
University  men,  I  leave  all  points  of  what  is  called 
Shakspearian  criticism.  I  have  attempted  nothing 
but  to  bring  out  obvious  points  of  dramatic  interest, 
and  to  enable  those  whom  I  addressed  to  get  a  clear 
view  of  the  story  and  the  characters. 

If  I  can  do  anything  towards  opening  the  "  mighty 
book  "  for  those  who  have  not  time  or  facilities  for 
searching  out  what  I  have  done  from  various  sources, 
I  shall  feel  very  glad  that  I  undertook  a  task  which 
at  first  I  shrank  from  as  beyond  my  powers. 

I  found  however,  that  my  habit,  as  a  novelist,  of 
studying  characters,  and,  as  it  were,  working  in  fic- 
tion, gave  me  a  certain  insight  even  into  Shakspeare's 
mind.  I  feel  very  sure  that  his  characters  started 
from  some  germ,  and  evolved  themselves  as  he 
wrote  ;  that  they  grew,  in  short,  beneath  his  hand, 
and  were  not  laid  down  by  line  and  rule  beforehand. 
He  had  an  inner  sense  which  made  it  impossible  for 
him  to  make  any  of  his  creatures  (unless  it  may  be 
Oliver,  in  **As  You  Like  It")  act  *'  oul  of  character." 

Lord  Tennyson  is  reported  to  have  said,  in  the 
course  of  some  discussion  on  the  recent  abuses  of 


Preface,  vii 

biography,  that  the  world  should  be  thankful  there 
are  but  five  facts  absolutely  known  to  us  about 
Shakspeare.  These  five  indisputable  facts  are,  the 
date  of  his  birth, —  St.  George's  Day,  April  23,  1564, 
six  years  after  the  accession  of  Queen  Elizabeth ;  his 
marriage  when  he  was  only  nineteen  to  Anne  Hath- 
away; his  connection  with  the  Globe  Theatre,  and 
with  Blackfriars;  his  retirement  from  theatrical  life, 
with  a  competency,  to  Stratford-upon-Avon ;  and  the 
date  of  his  death,  which  took  place  upon  the  anni- 
versary of  his  birth,  161 6,  five  years  after  the  publi- 
cation of  King  James'  translation  of  the  English  Bible. 
Knight's  bulky  and  interesting  life  of  Shakspeare 
contains  but  these  five  facts ;  the  rest  of  the  book 
consists  of  guess-work  and  side-shows. 

There  are  five  portraits  of  Shakspeare,  two  of  which 
may  possibly  be  genuine ;  and  recently  in  Germany 
a  death-mask  has  been  found,  marked  1616,  which  is 
supposed  to  have  been  taken  from  his  dead  face. 
The  evidence  is  curious,  but  not  conclusive ;  it  may 
be  found  in  a  paper  by  Dr.  Ingleby  and  in  *'  Scrib- 
ner's  Monthly." 

His  name  he  spelled  Shakspere.  His  arms  were 
given  to  his  family  for  services  rendered  to  Henry  VH. 
on  Bosworth-field.  He  had  two  daughters,  Susanna 
and  Judith.  Susanna  married  a  somewhat  learned 
physician  and  strict  Puritan,  —  Dr.  Hall.  They 
had  one  little  daughter,  Elizabeth,  a  great  pet  with 
her  grandfather.      She  was  twice   married,  but  was 


viii  Preface, 

childless.  She  lived  to  a  good  old  age,  and  died  in 
the  reign  of  Charles  II.  Judith  married  a  citizen  of 
Stratford,  whose  name  was  Quimby.  She  had  no 
children.  She  and  her  brother  Hamet  (born  before 
their  father  was  twenty-one)  were  twins.  Hamet 
died  in  early  boyhood,  to  the  great  grief  of  his 
father. 

Shakspeare  had  brothers,  though  little  is  known  of 
them ;  he  had  also  uncles  of  the  same  name.  From 
one  of  these  the  Shakspeares  in  America  claim  to  be 
descended. 

When  Dante  found  himself  in  that  outer  circle  of 
the  Inferno  where  poets  and  their  dramatis  personcB 
lived  in  honor  and  great  glory,  deprived  of  heavenly 
light,  but  illuminated  by  artificial  brilliancy,  Virgil 
introduced  him  to  the  company  of  the  five  great  poets 
of  the  world,  under  the  captaincy  of  Homer,  who 
admitted  him  (the  sixth)  into  their  company.  I 
never  read  this  passage  in  the  "  Inferno "  without 
thinking  how  time  has  altered  the  rank  of  these  six 
great  ones.  Homer  retains  his  sovereignty,  but  next 
to  him  stands  Shakspeare;  Dante  ranks  the  third. 
The  three  other  places  may  be  still  matter  of  dispute. 
We  shall  surely  not  elect  to  them  Lucan,  Horace,  and 
Ovid,  —  perhaps  even  Virgil  may  not  be  one. 


CONTENTS. 


Pagb 

The  Winter's  Tale 3 

The  Tempest  .     .    \^^,^^"". 55 

Midsummer  Night's  Dream ,     ,     .  91 

Taming  of  the  Shrew ,     .     .  131 

Much  Ado  about  Nothing 181 

As  You  Like. It ,   ...  231 

Twelfth  Night;  or,  What  You  Will   .....  291 

The  Merchant  of  Venice 339 

Cymbeline 393 

INDEX 441 


THE    WINTER'S    TALE. 


FAMILIAR.  TALKS, ..,,..,. 

ON   SOME  OF 

SHAKSPEARE'S    COMEDIES. 


THE  WINTER'S   TALE. 

"  'THHIS  name,"  says  Coleridge,  "  is  admirably  adapted 
X  to  the  Play  throughout."  Shakspeare  makes  little 
Mamillius  say,  "  A  sad  tale  *s  best  for  winter ;  "  and  this  play 
is  more  properly  a  dramatic  tale  than  a  drama,  for  it  does 
not  respect  dramatic  proprieties,  but  is  in  two  parts,  —  as 
much  so  as  "  Henry  IV. "  is  in  two  parts,  or  "  Henry  VI. "  in 
three.  The  first  part  is  in  three  acts ;  then  an  interval  of 
fifteen  years  occurs  between  that  part  and  the  last  two  acts, 
which  form  a  sequel  to  the  first  play  or  part,  with  different 
dramatis  personcB. 

The  story  is  taken  from  a  novel  by  Richard  Greene,  a 
gentleman  and  scholar,  who  first  published  his  story  in  1588, 
the  year  of  the  Armada.  From  internal  evidence  Shak- 
speare seems  to  have  written  "  The  Winter's  Tale "  six 
years  before  his  death,  in  16 10;  and  it  is  known  to  have 
been  performed  in  161 3,  for  we  have  a  report  of  the  play, 
as  minute  as  the  work  of  a  dramatic  critic  in  our  news- 
papers, preserved  in  the  diary  of  an  old  gentleman  who  was 
present  at  the  performance.  It  was  first  published  in  the  old 
"  Folio"  of  1623  ;  had  this  not  been  the  case  it  would  have 
been  lost  to  us,  for  no  earlier  copy  has  been  preserved. 


The  Winter  ^s  Tale. 


The  critics 'in 'the'  Cetitury  that  succeeded  that  of  Shak- 
'Hpp^rb's  .'d^atji  ,'ftpfeak  of.  it  '^Hghtingly.  Horace  Walpole,  not 
knowing  the  date  '  of  its  composition  or  first  performance, 
makes  a  long  argument  to  prove  that  it  was  a  sequel,  or 
second-part,  to  "Henry  VHL,"  and  that  it  was  written  in 
the  reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  being  the  history  of  her 
mother,  Anne  Boleyn,  in  a  sort  of  allegory.  This  criticism 
is  very  queer  and  ingenious,  proving  how  interpretations  the 
most  plausible  can  go  astray. 

It  has  been  considered  a  particularly  good  acting-play, 
though  there  are  no  star-parts  in  it.  A  few  years  ago  it 
was  revived  in  New  York  as  a  kind  of  spectacular  drama, 
everything  being  subordinated  to  the  mise  e?i  scene,  I  heard 
one  gentleman  who  was  present  regretting  that  Shakspeare 
could  not  have  seen  all  the  surroundings  of  his  drama  real- 
ized ;  but  I  heard  another  remark  that  it  was  painful  to  him 
to  have  Shakspeare's  poetry  and  Shakspeare's  characters 
crowded  out,  as  it  were,  to  give  place  to  materialism.  I 
suppose  the  effect  produced  depended  on  the  personal 
temperament  of  the  beholder.  In  Greene's  novel  the  con- 
clusion of  the  story  is  painful  and  disgusting.  There  is  no 
return  of  Hermione,  and  the  Leontes  of  the  play  commits 
suicide.  Antigones,  Paulina,  and  Autolycus  are  characters 
entirely  added  by  Shakspeare. 

The  scene  of  the  play  is  first  in  Sicily,  then  in  Bohemia. 
As  the  eldest  daughter  of  King  James,  the  beautiful  Eliza- 
beth, was  aspiring  to  the  crown  of  Bohemia  at  the  time 
Shakspeare  was  writing  "The  Winter's  Tale,"  he  must  have 
been  perfectly  familiar  with  its  surroundings  and  geography ; 
nevertheless,  no  end  of  fun  has  been  made  out  of  the  fact 
that  Bohemia  in  the  play  is  a  maritime  kingdom.     In  the 


The  Winter^ s  Tale,  5 

first  place,  no  author  is  responsible  for  the  geography  of  fairy- 
land. Secondly,  Shakspeare  took  Bohemia  for  the  locality 
of  his  story  because  Greene  did  so  before  him.  Thirdly, 
it  may  have  been  a  joke  ;  for  in  a  burlesque  book  of  travels 
of  that  day,  a  London  alderman  is  represented  as  asking  if 
the  British  fleet  had  arrived  in  Bohemia  !  Fourthly,  Shak- 
speare and  Greene  may  have  been  in  the  right ;  for  the  Goths 
who  settled  in  Bohemia  were  part  of  a  tribe  —  the  Boli  — 
half  of  which  established  itself  on  the  northwestern  coast 
of  Italy.  Out  of  all  these  explanations  we  are  at  liberty  to 
choose.  I  prefer  the  first  one  ;  but  the  case  is  much  like  the 
defence  of  the  Irishman  who  stole  the  gridiron  :  i .  That 
he  had  never  seen  it.  2.  That  it  was  good  for  nothing 
when  he  got  it.     3.  That  he  had  carried  it  home  again. 

Coleridge  says  of  this  Play  that  "  its  idea  is  a  genuine 
jealousy  of  disposition,  and  that  it  should  be  immediately 
followed  by  the  perusal  of  Othello,  which  is  the  direct  con- 
trast to  it  in  every  particular.  For  jealousy,"  he  continues, 
"  is  a  vice  of  the  mind,  a  culpable  tendency  of  temper,  hav- 
ing certain  well-known  and  well-defined  defects  and  con- 
comitants, all  of  which  are  visible  in  Leontes,  and  not  one, 
I  boldly  say,  in  Othello ;  such  as,  first,  an  excitability  for 
the  most  inadequate  causes,  and  an  eagerness  to  snatch  at 
proofs ;  secondly,  a  grossness  of  conception,  and  a  dispo- 
sition to  degrade  the  subject  of  the  passion;  thirdly,  a 
sense  of  shame  in  the  jealous  man  for  his  own  feelings,  — 
betrayed  in  moodiness  and  solitariness ;  which  nevertheless 
is  forced  to  utter  itself,  and  therefore  catches  at  hints  and 
ambiguities,  and  goes  on  talking  to  those  who  cannot  under- 
stand, —  in  short,  in  a  soliloquy  in  the  form  of  dialogue, 
confused,  broken,  fragmentary ;   fourthly,  a  dread  of  vulgar 


The  Winter's  Tale, 


ridicule,  distinct  from  a  high  sense  of  honor ;  and  fifthly, 
selfish  vindictiveness.  Shakspeare  has  displayed  jealousy 
as  acting  on  four  different  minds.  In  Ford,  in  *  The  Merry 
Wives  of  Windsor '  it  is  ridiculous  ;  in  Leontes  it  is,  as  it  were, 
pur  et  simple,  acting  on  a  wayward  and  inferior  character ; 
in  Othello,  a  noble  but  impulsive  nature  is  goaded  by  the 
basest  arts  into  a  jealous  rage,  —  the  more  easily  that  Othello 
is  always  conscious  of  not  being  to  the  '  manner  born,'  in  the 
society  and  position  he  is  placed  in;  he  fancies  therefore 
that  others  must  know  better  than  himself.  In  Posthumus 
jealousy  is  an  error  of  judgment ;  his  understanding  has 
been  cheated  by  the  most  damning  evidence,  and  it  is  due 
to  his  own  honor  to  punish  Imogen's  supposed  infidelity; 
but  in  Leontes  jealousy  is  part  of  his  disposition ;  he  sus- 
pects without  cause,  condemns  without  proof,  is  mean, 
insulting,  and  cruel.  Hermione,  his  wife,  is  a  matron, 
queen,  and  mother.  Her  character  is  one  of  Shakspeare 's 
noblest.  Her  distinguishing  characteristics  are  self-restraint 
and  dignity.  She  is  shown  less  perhaps  in  what  she  says 
herself  than  in  the  impression  she  never  fails  to  produce  on 
others." 

"  Her  composure  of  temper  never  forsakes  her,"  says  Mrs. 
Jameson,  **and  yet  it  is  so  delineated  that  the  impression  is 
that  of  grandeur,  and  never  borders  upon  pride  or  coldness. 
It  is  the  fortitude  of  a  clear  but  strong  mind  conscious  of  its 
innocence."  Mrs.  Jameson  thinks  also  that  the  character 
of  Hermione  is  conceived  upon  the  principles  of  ancient  art, 
where  grace  is  combined  with  strength.  "  In  Hermione," 
she  says,  "  we  have  the  same  largeness  of  conception  and 
delicacy  of  execution,  the  same  effect  of  suffering  without 
passion,  and  grandeur  without  effort,  as  in  the  highest  works 


The  Winter'' s  Tale. 


of  Grecian  art."  Shakspeare  seems  to  have  felt  in  himself, 
and  by  intuition,  what  art-students  study  all  their  lives ;  and 
"  the  classic  beauty  of  Hermione  is  heightened  by  the  pas- 
toral sweetness  of  Perdita,  and  a  certain  Gothic  savagery  in 
her  surroundings." 

Act  I.    Scene  i. 

The  play  opens  in  an  ante-room  in  Leontes'  palace  in 
Sicily.  Polixenes,  the  former  schoolmate  of  Leontes,  and 
King  of  Bohemia,  has  been  paying  his  old  friend  a  long  visit. 
The  speakers  are  two  noblemen,  —  one  of  Bohemia,  the  other 
of  Sicily,  —  who  out-do  each  other  in  polite  compliments. 
The  Sicilian,  Camillo,  is  an  old  and  trusty  counsellor  of  King 
Leontes,  a  good  man  but  a  weak  one,  wholly  unfitted  to 
cope  with  the  difficulties  into  which  he  is  drawn  by  the 
wayward  temper  of  the  King  his  master.  Coleridge  bids  us 
remark  how  easy  is  the  style  of  the  chit-chat  between  these 
noblemen,  as  contrasted  with  the  elevated  diction  of  the 
Kings  and  Hermione  in  the  second  scene.  They  end  by 
both  breaking  into  praises  of  the  only  child  of  Leontes, 
the  heir  of  Sicily,  —  poor  little  Prince  Mamillius. 

Scene  2. 

This  scene  is  in  a  room  of  state,  into  which  enter  Leontes, 
Polixenes,  Hermione,  Mamillius,  attendants,  and  Camillo. 
Polixenes  is  talking  of  the  length  of  time  he  has  been 
absent  from  Bohemia  and  the  necessity  of  his  return.  To- 
morrow, he  says,  he  must  take  his  farewell  of  his  friends. 
He  has  presentiments  that  he  is  needed  in  his  kingdom. 
Leontes,  from  pure  wilfulness  apparently,  and  a  desire  to  get 
his  own  way  even  in  trifles,  presses  his  guest  to  stay,  with  a 


8  The  Winter's  Tale. 

persistence  that  is  far  beyond  the  rules  of  hospitality.  Polix- 
enes  behaves  with  great  politeness,  but  he  is  firm.  No 
tongue,  he  says,  could  move  him  sooner  than  his  ft-iend's, 
but  he  must  go.  Then  Leontes  turns  to  Hermione  and 
asks  her  why  she  does  not  second  his  request  ?  Willing  to 
please  her  husband  even  in  his  whim,  she  joins  in  the  dis- 
cussion. She  does  not,  however,  address  Pohxenes  himself, 
but  her  husband.  "  Tell  him  you  are  sure  all  in  Bohemia  's 
well."  Her  husband  being  pleased  with  this  remark,  she 
goes  further.  She  recognizes  the  reasonableness  of  Polix- 
enes'  wish  to  be  gone,  but  begs  for  one  week  more,  adding  : 
"  When  my  lord  returns  your  visit  next  year,  in  Bohemia,  I  '11 
give  him  leave  to  stay  a  month  "  beyond  the  time  fixed  for  his 
departure  j  ''  and  yet,"  she  adds  at  once,  knowing  her  hus- 
band's disposition,  and  seeing  a  frown  gathering  upon  his 
forehead,  "  yet  in  good  deed,  Leontes,  I  love  thee  not  one 
atom  [one  tick  of  the  clock]  less  than  the  most  loving  lady 
loves  her  lord."  Most  charmingly  she  prays  Polixenes  to 
consent ;  and  he,  not  proof  against  the  persuasions  of  a 
queen  and  lady,  gives  in.  "  Then  come,"  replies  Hermione 
in  triumph,  "  I  '11  question  you  of  my  lord's  tricks  and 
yours  when  you  were  boys." 

She  then  goes  on  (while  Leontes  turns  aside)  with  pretty 
badinage,  such  as  a  charming  woman  might  well  use  to  her 
husband's  friend.  Leontes  interrupts  them  with,  "  Is  he 
won  yet?  "  Hermione  replies,  "  He  '11  stay,  my  lord."  In- 
stantly a  jealous  thought  flashes 'into  Leontes'  mind.  He 
has  not  yet  any  fancy,  I  think,  concerning  guilt  between  his 
friend  and  wife,  but  has  a  jealous  dislike  to  having  any  one 
succeed  where  he  has  failed.  Those  who  have  had  to  soothe 
minds  liable  to  jealousy  know  how  true  is  all  this  scene,  — 


i 


The   Winter'' s  Tale, 


the  ^ash  of  suspicion  that  another  is  preferred ;  the  shame 
felt  for  it ;  the  effort  to  recover  himself  in  the  next  words ; 
then  the  attempt  to  draw  from  Hermione  something  flattering 
to  his  own  self-love,  to  soothe  the  sting;  while  Hermione, 
in  glad  spirits,  well  pleased  with  her  own  success  and  at  the 
evident  admiration  of  the  two  men,  goes  on  to  be  more 
charming  and  more  gracious  to  Polixenes  than  it  is  wise  to 
have  been,  —  all  the  time  thinking  that  she  is  gratifying  her 
husband.  She  even  gives  her  hand  to  Polixenes;  seeing 
which,  the  very  fiend  of  jealousy  enters  into  Leontes,  and 
he  breaks  out  into  a  speech  vulgar,  abusive,  coarse,  such 
as  only  a  man  with  a  tainted  mind,  I  think,  would  have 
thought  of. 

I  conceive  of  Leontes  as  le  mart  difficile.  It  seems  to  me 
that  Hermione  is  under  the  constant  fear  of  offending  him ; 
that  he  is  a  man  whose  behavior  is  guided  not  by  principles 
but  moods,  —  the  hardest  of  all  men  to  deal  with,  because 
a  wife  never  knows  "  where  to  find  "  such  a  husband.  When 
Hermione  has  succeeded,  as  she  thinks,  in  pleasing  him,  a 
weight  is  lifted  off  her  heart ;  she  has  stepped  into  sunshine, 
—  the  last  and  only  gleam  of  sunshine  in  the  rest  of  her  sad 
life  ;  for  it  is  a  "Winter's  Tale  "  so  far  as  Hermione  is  con- 
cerned. All  pretty  graces  and  sweet  coquetries  peep  out,  and 
she  is  charming  with  Pohxenes  to  her  own  destruction. 

Then  Leontes,  baser  and  baser,  "  beset  with  doubts  and 
fears,  and  entangled  more  and  more  "  in  the  labyrinth  of 
thorns  he  has  created  for  himself,  turns  to  his  boy.  He 
wishes  to  make  sure,  he  says,  that  he  is  like  him  —  his  father. 
The  likeness  is  too  unmistakable  for  jealousy  itself  to  deny. 
The  whole  address  to  the  child  —  to  whom  happily  its  insinu- 
ations  must  have   been   incomprehensible  —  is   disgusting. 


lO  The  Winter's  Tale, 

The  "rough  pash  "  means  a  rough  head  of  hair.  The  ** wel- 
kin eyes  "  are  blue  eyes.  The  endearments  are  all  coarse 
and  disagreeable. 

As  Leontes  continues  his  broken  soliloquy  Polixenes  begins 
to  perceive  that  something  has  gone  wrong,  and  he  and 
Hermione  knowing  the  disposition  of  the  moody  friend  and 
husband,  unite  to  smooth  the  "raven  down  of  darkness." 
Leontes  turns  off  their  inquiries,  and  continues  toying  with 
his  son.  "Mine  honest  friend,  wilt  thou  take  eggs  for 
money?"  is  a  proverbial  expression  equal  to  our  saying 
now-a-days :  Would  you  exchange  a  good  horse  for  a  gross 
of  green  spectacles  ? 

Pleased  with  the  boy's  answer  the  father  says  :  "  May  his 
life  be  a  happy  one  —  Happy  man  be  his  dole  !  "  Alas  !  poor 
child,  that  father's  jealousy  was  to  extinguish  that  bright  young 
life  in  a  few  days. 

Polixenes  is  induced  to  speak  of  his  son  Florizel,  the  future 
hero  of  the  second  part  of  the  play,  the  spring-time  of  the 
"Winter's  Tale."  With  fresh  exhortations  to  Hermione  to  be 
courteous  to  his  friend  and  brother-king,  Leontes  walks  off 
with  Mamillius ;  but  Hermione's  brief  time  of  happiness  and 
brightness  is  over.  She  is  doubtless  taking  counsel  with 
Polixenes  how  Leontes  may  be  soothed  back  to  good  humor, 
while  Leontes  goes  on  with  his  conversation  with  his  boy,  or 
rather  his  soliloquy  addressed  to  him  in  innuendoes.  Mamil- 
lius, though  not  understanding  the  foul  talk,  has  wit  enough 
to  see  that  the  one  reflection  that  seems  to  soothe  his  father 
is  the  recollection  of  the  striking  likeness  that  exists  between 
them. 

Then  having  sent  the  child  to  play,  Leontes  calls  Camillo, 
and  bewilders  that  good  councillor  (used  as  he  has  long  been 


The  Winter 's  Tale.  1 1 

to  his  master's  moods)  by  the  staggering  intensity  of  feeling 
in  the  speeches  he  makes  him.  Camillo  does  not  seem  to 
understand  how  to  answer  him.  In  the  course  of  the  talk 
we  gather  that  Leontes  has  been  at  some  time  in  his  career 
a  man  of  loose  life,  which  accounts  for  his  vulgar  insinuations 
and  his  base  ideas  of  women. 

Camillo,  finding  himself  mysteriously  accused,  makes  a 
dignified  defence,  and  asks  what  is  his  trespass  :  — 

My  gracious  lord, 
I  may  be  negligent,  foolish,  and  fearful ; 
In  every  one  of  these  no  man  is  free. 
But  that  his  negligence,  his  folly,  fear, 
Among  the  infinite  doings  of  the  world 
Sometimes  puts  forth,     \xiyour  affairs,  my  lord, 
If  ever  I  were  wilful-negligent, 
It  was  my  folly  ;  if  industriously 
I  played  the  fool,  it  was  my  negligence, 
Not  weighing  well  the  end;  if  ever  fearful 
To  do  a  thing,  where  I  the  issue  doubted, 
Whereof  the  execution  did  cry  out 
Against  the  non-performance,  't  was  a  fear 
Which  oft  infects  the  wisest :  these,  my  lord, 
Are  such  allowed  infirmities  that  honesty 
Is  never  free  of     But,  beseech  your  grace, 
Be  plainer  with  me ;  let  me  know  my  trespass 
By  its  own  visage  :  if  I  then  deny  it 
'T  is  none  of  mine. 

Leontes  in  answer  breaks  out  into  an  incoherent  speech, 
calling  his  wife  the  worst  of  names.  Camillo's  indignation  is 
not  only  noble  in  itself,  but  it  shows  the  opinion  entertained 
of  Queen  Hermione  by  all  the  court. 

Camillo.     I  would  not  be  a  stander-by  to  hear 
My  sovereign  mistress  clouded  so,  without 
My  present  vengeance  taken  :  'shrew  my  heart. 
You  never  spoke  what  did  become  you  less 


12  The  Winter's  Tale, 

Than  this ;  which  to  reiterate  were  sin 
As  deep  as  that  —  'though  true. 

Then  Leontes  raves  like  a  madman,  and  without  any 
diplomatic  preparation,  proposes  to  Camillo  to  poison  Polix- 
enes.  Camillo  tries  to  temporize,  —  to  make  terms  for 
Hermione,  —  to  let  this  storm  blow  over.  He  has  no  inten- 
tion, I  am  sure,  of  murdering  Polixenes,  though  he  is  sorely 
perplexed  as  to  how  he  ought  to  act,  being  a  good  man 
rather  than  a  quick-witted  one.  He  speaks  of  Leontes  as 
one  "  who  in  rebellion  with  himself  would  have  all  that  are 
his  so  too." 

I  have  dwelt  long  on  this  scene  because  it  seems  to  me  a 
very  wonderful  one,  and  I  have  never  known  it  commented 
upon.  Leontes,  promising  Camillo  to  seem  friendly  to  his 
guest,  goes  out,  and  in  a  few  moments  Polixenes  enters.  He 
has  encountered  Leontes,  who,  instead  of  keeping  his, 
promise  to  Camillo,  has  not  been  willing  to  speak  to  him!  -lai 

Polixenes  cannot  understand  what  is  going  on,  and  is 
anxious  to  get  some  light  upon  the  mystery  from  Camillo. 
By  degrees  he  draws  the  truth  from  the  old  Councillor,  who 
is  willing,  yet  ashamed  to  tell  it,  —  conscious,  too,  that  he  is 
sacrificing  his  own  prospects  in  life,  but  faithful  to  his  duty 
and  his  Queen.  The  amazement  of  Polixenes  at  the  revela- 
tion is  great,  and  his  repudiation  of  the  baseness  attributed 
to  him  is  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger.  Camillo  says  truly 
that  the  sea  might  as  soon  be  forbidden  to  obey  the  moon 
as  Leontes  be  by  any  means  convinced  of  his  own  folly. 
The  only  thing  to  be  done  is  for  Polixenes,  accompanied  by 
Camillo,  to  put  to  sea  immediately.  In  Polixenes'  last  speech 
you  will  observe  that  he  expresses  no  amazement  at  the 
monstrous  wickedness  of  Leontes.     He  has  known  his  way 


:h 

J 


The  Winter's  Tale. 


13 


wardness  of  old.     He  thinks  that  when  he  himself  is  out  of 
the  way  his  friend  will  recover  his  temper  and  his  senses. 

Polixenes.  .  .  .  Give  me  thy  hand ! 
Be  pilot  to  me,  and  thy  places  shall 
Still  neighbor  mine.    My  ships  are  ready 
And  my  people  did  expect  my  hence  departure 
Two  days  ago.     This  jealousy 
Is  for  a  precious  creature  ;  as  she  's  rare 
Must  it  be  great ;  and,  as  his  person 's  mighty 
Must  it  be  violent ;  and,  as  he  does  conceive 
He  is  dishonored  by  a  man  which  ever 
Professed  to  love  him,  his  revenges  must 
In  that  be  made  more  bitter.     Fear  o'ershades  me  : 
Good  expedition  be  my  friend,  and  comfort 
The  gracious  Queen !  .  .  .  Come,  Camillo ; 
I  will  respect  thee  as  a  father  if 
Thou  bear'st  my  life  off  hence.  .  .  . 

Camillo.     It  is  in  mine  authority  to  command 
The  keys  of  all  the  posterns.     Please  your  highness 
To  take  the  urgent  hour  :  come,  sir,  away  ! 

Act  II.     Scene  i. 

This  act  opens  in  Hermione's  apartments.  She  is  pre- 
occupied, anxious,  and  far  from  well ;  her  little  son  worries 
her,  and  she  asks  the  ladies  round  her  to  take  him  for  a  time 
away  from  her.  They  try  to  excite  the  boy's  jealousy  by 
predicting  that  his  mother  will  soon  have  a  fine  new  prince, 
and  will  not  care  for  him  ;  but  Mamillius  has  not  his  father's 
disposition.  His  mother,  returning,  asks  him  to  sit  by  her 
and  tell  her  a  fairy  story.  "  Come  on,  and  do  your  best 
to  fright  me  with  your  sprites ;  you  're  powerful  at  it ! " 
But  the  story  gets  no  further  than  "  There  was  a  man 
dwelt  by  a  church-yard,"  when  it  is  interrupted  by  the 
itrance   of  Leontes   and   his  courtiers.     He  is  furious  at 


14  The  Winter's  Tale, 

the  escape  of  Polixenes  and  Camillo,  and,  with  dogged 
determination  to  turn  every  circumstance  to  evil  account, 
he  insists  that  Camillo  was  the  confederate  of  Polixenes. 
Then  he  snatches  his  son  away  from  his  astonished  wife. 
The  scene  is  a  very  painful  one.  You  will  remark  Her- 
mione's  sweet  dignity.  Long  ago,  probably,  she  had  learned 
to  bear  unreasonable  fault-finding  from  her  husband.  She 
knows  that  in  his  present  mood  no  reasoning  would  move 
him;  she  simply  makes  her  protest  to  the  lords,  who  are 
all  upon  her  side ;  she  has  not  an  enemy  in  her  husband's 
court  except  the  man  who  had  vowed  to  love,  cherish, 
and  honor  her. 

Leontes.    Give  me  the  boy !    I  am  glad  you  did  not  nurse  him. 
Though  he  does  bear  some  signs  of  me,  yet  you 
Have  too  much  blood  in  him. 

Hermione.  What  is  this  ?  — sport  ? 

Leofites.    Bear  the  boy  hence,  he  shall  not  come  about  her. 
Away  with  him !  .  .  .  you,  my  lords, 
Look  on  her,  mark  her  well.     But  be  about 
To  say :  "  She  is  a  goodly  lady,"  and 
The  justice  of  your  hearts  will  thereto  add, 
"  'T  is  pity  she  's  not  honest  —  honorable." 
Praise  her  but  for  this,  her  without-door  form, 
Which  on  my  faith  deserves  high  speech,  and  straight 
The  shrug  —  the  hum  —  or  ha  —  those  petty  brands 
That  calumny  doth  use,  —  O,  I  am  wrong  !  — 
That  mercy  does  ;  for  calumny  will  fear 
Virtue  itself,  — these  shrugs,  these  hums  and  ha's, 
When  you  have  said,  *'  She  's  goodly,"  come  between 
Ere  you  can  say,  "  She 's  honest."     But  be  it  known 
From  him  that  has  most  cause  to  grieve  it  should  be. 
She  's  an  adulteress. 

Hermione.  Should  a  villain  say  so  — 

The  most  replenished  villain  in  the  world  — 
He  were  as  much  more  villain  !  you,  my  lord. 
Do  but  mistake. 


The  Winter^ s  Tale. 


15 


Leontes.  You  have  mistook,  my  lady, 

Polixenes  for  Leontes.  ...  I  have  said 
She  's  an  adulteress  ;  I  have  said  with  whom  ; 
More  !  she 's  a  traitress,  and  Camillo  is 
Confederate  with  her,  and  one  that  knows, 
"What  she  should  shame  to  know  herself, 
That  she 's  a  perjured  woman,  e'en  as  bad  as  those 
That  vulgars  give  bold  titles  ;  ay,  and  privy 
To  this  their  late  escape. 

Hertnione.  No  !  by  my  life 

Privy  to  none  of  this.     How  will  this  grieve  you, 
When  you  shall  come  to  clearer  knowledge,  that 
You  thus  have  published  me  !     Gentle  my  lord, 
You  scarce  can  right  me  throughly  then  to  say 
You  did  mistake. 

Leontes.  No,  no  ;  if  I  mistake 

In  those  foundations  which  I  build  upon. 
The  centre  is  not  big  enough  to  bear 
A  schoolboy's  top.    Away  with  her  to  prison ! 
He  who  shall  speak  for  her  is  afar  off  guilty 
For  even  speaking. 

Hermiojie.  There  's  some  ill  planet  reigns. 

I  must  be  patient,  till  the  heavens  look 
With  an  aspect  more  favorable.     Good  my  lords, 
I  am  not  prone  to  weeping,  as  our  sex 
Commonly  are ;  the  want  of  which  vain  dew 
Perchance  shall  dry  your  pities  :  but  I  have 
That  honorable  grief  lodged  here  which  burns 
Worse  than  tears  drown.     Beseech  you  all,  my  lords, 
With  thoughts  so  qualified  as  your  charities 
Shall  best  instruct  you,  measure  me  ;  and  so 
The  King's  will  be  performed ! 

Leontes  [to  the  guards'].  Shall  I  be  heard  } 

Herniione.    Who  is  it  goes  with  me  ?   Beseech  your  highness 
My  women  may  be  with  me  ;  for  you  see 
My  plight  requires  it.     Do  not  weep,  good  fools, 
There  is  no  cause.     When  you  shall  know  your  mistress 
Has  deserved  prison,  then  abound  in  tears. 
Adieu,  my  lord.     I  never  wished  to  see  you  sorry ; 
Now  I  trust  I  shall.    My  women,  come ; 
You  have  leave.  \Exeicnt  Queen  and  Ladies. 


1 6  The  Winter's  Tale, 


I  Lord.     Beseech  your  highness,  call  the  Queen  again. 

Antigoiius.    Be  certain  what  you  do,  sir,  lest  your  justice 
Prove  violence ;  in  the  which  three  great  ones  suffer,  — 
Yourself,  your  queen,  your  son. 

I  Lord.  For  her,  my  lord, 

I  dare  my  life  lay  down,  and  will  do  't,  sir, 
Please  you  to  accept  it,  that  the  Queen  is  spotless 
In  the  eyes  of  heaven,  and  to  yoa.     I  mean 
In  this  which  you  accuse  her. 

Antigonus.    Ay!  every  drachm  of  woman's  flesh  is  false 
If  she  be. 

Leontes.    Hold  your  peace. 

I  Lord.  Good  my  lord  — 

Antigonus.    It  is  for  you  we  speak,  not  for  ourselves. 
You  are  abused,  and  by  some  putter-on 
That  will  be  damned  for  it.    Would  I  knew  the  villain  ; 
I  would  land-damn  him  ! 

Leojttes.  Cease  —  no  more. 

You  smell  this  business  with  a  sense  as  cold 
As  is  a  dead  man's  nose.    I  see  't  and  feel  't.  .  .  . 
We  need  no  more  of  your  advice  ;  the  matter, 
The  loss,  the  gain,  the  ordering  on  't,  is  all 
Properly  ours. 

Antigonus.      And  I  wish,  my  liege, 
You  had  only  in  your  silent  judgment  tried  it. 
Without  more  overture. 

Leontes.     .  .  .  For  fuller  confirmation,  — 
For  in  an  act  of  this  importance  't  were 
Most  piteous  to  be  wild,  —  I  have  despatched  in  post 
To  sacred  Delphos,  to  Apollo's  temple, 
Cleomenes  and  Dion,  whom  you  know 
Of  stuffed  sufficiency.     Now  from  the  oracle 
They  will  bring  all ;  whose  spiritual  counsel  had 
Shall  stop  or  spur  me.     Have  I  done  well } 

I  Lord.     Well  done,  my  lord. 

Leontes.    Though  I  am  satisfied,  and  need  no  more 
Than  what  I  know,  yet  shall  the  oracle 
Give  rest  to  the  minds  of  others  :  such  as  he 
Whose  ignorant  credulity  will  not 
Come  up  to  the  truth.     So  we  have  thought  it  good 
From  our  free  person  she  should  be  confined, 


The   Winter's  Tale,  17 

Lest  that  the  treachery  of  the  two  fled  hence 
Be  left  her  to  perform.     Come,  follow  us  ; 
We  are  to  speak  in  public,  for  this  business 
Will  raise  us  all. 

Atitigonus  [aside].     To  mockery,  as  I  take  it, 
If  the  good  truth  were  known. 

Sceue  2. 

We  have  a  new  character  in  this  second  scene,  —  Her- 
mione's  good  friend  Paulina,  who  is  striving  to  make  her 
way  into  her  lady's  prison.  "The  character  of  Paulina," 
says  Mrs.  Jameson,  "though  it  has  obtained  little  notice 
and  no  critical  remark  that  I  have  seen,  is  yet  one  of  the 
striking  beauties  of  the  play,  and  it  has  its  moral  too. 
Shakspeare  puts  his  characters  in  contrast,  —  Emilia  beside 
Desdemona,  the  Nurse  beside  Juhet,  the  clowns  and  merry 
pedler-thief  beside  Perdita ;  so  Paulina  is  the  friend  of 
Hermione.^  Paulina  does  not  fill  any  ostensible  office 
near  the  person  of  the  Queen,  but  is  a  lady  of  high  rank 
in  the  court,  —  the  wife  of  the  Lord  Antigonus.  She  is 
a  character  strongly  drawn  from  real  and  common  life, — 
a  clever,  generous,  strong-minded,  warm-hearted  woman, 
fearless  in  asserting  the  truth,  firm  in  her  sense  of  right, 
enthusiastic  in  all  her  affections,  quick  in  thought,  reso- 
lute in  word,  and  energetic  in  action ;  but  heedless,  hot- 
tempered,  impatient,  loud,  bold,  voluble,  and  turbulent  of 
tongue,  regardless  of  the  feehngs  of  those  for  whom  she 
would   sacrifice   herself,  and   injuring  from  excess  of  zeal 

1  We  may  remark  here  how  different  are  the  confidantes  of  the  French 
stage  from  those  of  Shakspeare.  No  foreigner  probably  enjoys  Comeille  and 
Racine  more  than  I  do,  — but  these  people  are  terrible.  There  is  not  one 
shade  of  difference  among  them;  they  are  simply  put  into  the  play  to  be 
talked  to. 


The  Winter's  Tale, 


those  she  would  most  wish  to  serve.  The  manner  in 
which  all  the  evil  and  dangerous  tendencies  of  such  a 
temper  are  placed  before  us,  even  while  the  individual 
character  preserves  the  strongest  hold  upon  our  respect  and 
admiration,  forms  an  impressive  lesson  as  well  as  a  natural 
and  delightful  portrait.  In  the  scene  (act  ii.,  scene  3), 
for  instance,  in  which  she  brings  the  infant  before  Leontes 
with  the  hope  of  softening  him  to  a  sense  of  his  injustice, 
— '  an  office '  which,  as  she  observes,  '  becomes  a  woman 
best,'  —  her  want  of  self-government,  and  her  bitter,  incon- 
siderate reproaches  only  add,  as  we  might  easily  suppose 
they  would,  to  his  fury." 

The  scene  is  in  the  outer  room  of  a  prison.     Paulina,  as 
befits  a  great  lady,  comes  in  with  her  attendants. 

Paulina.     The  keeper  of  the  prison  !  —  call  for  him. 
Let  him^  have  knowledge  who  I  am.     Good  lady ! 
No  court  in  Europe  is  too  good  for  thee  ; 
What  dost  thou  then  in  prison  ?  \Here  enters  the  Keeper. 

Now,  good  sir, 
You  know  me  —  do  you  not  ? 

Keeper.  For  a  worthy  lady, 

And  one  whom  I  much  honor. 

Paulina.  Pray  you,  then. 

Conduct  me  to  the  Queen. 

Keeper.     I  may  not,  madam.     To  the  contrary 
I  have  express  commands. 

Paulina.  Here 's  ado 

To  lock  up  honesty  and  honor  from 
The  access  of  gentle  visitors  !     Is  it  lawful, 
Pray  you,  to  see  her  women  .?  — any  of  them  ?  — 
Emilia? 

Keeper.  So  please  you,  madam,  to  put 
Apart  these  your  attendants,  I  shall  bring 
Emilia  forth. 

Paulina.        I  pray  you  now  call  her. 
Withdraw  yourselves.  {Exeunt  Attendants. 


The  Winter's  Tale,  19 


Keeper.  And,  madam, 

I  must  be  present  at  your  conference. 

Paulina.     Well,  be  it  so,  prithee.  \Exit  Keeper. 

Here  's  such  ado  to  make  no  stain  a  stain 
As  passes  coloring.  \Re-enter  Keeper,  with  Emilia. 

Dear  gentlewoman,  how  fares  our  gracious  lady  ? 

Emilia.     As  well  as  one  so  great  and  so  forlorn 
May  hold  together.     On  her  frights  and  griefs 
(Which  never  tender  lady  hath  borne  greater) 
She  is,  something  before  her  time,  delivered. 

Paulina.     A  boy  ? 

Emilia.  A  daughter,  and  a  goodly  babe, 

Lusty  and  like  to  live.     The  Queen  receives 
Much  comfort  in  it ;  says  :  "  My  poor  prigpner, 
I  am  innocent  as  you." 

Paulina.     I  dare  be  sworn.     These  dangerous 
Insane  furies  of  the  King,  beshrew  them. 
He  must  be  told  on 't,  and  he  shall.     The  office 
Becomes  a  woman  best  ;     I  '11  take  't  upon  me. 
If  I  prove  honey-mouthed,  let  my  tongue  blister. 

.  .  .  Pray  you,  Emilia, 
Commend  my  best  obedience  to  the  Queen. 
If  she  dares  trust  me  with  her  little  babe, 
I  '11  show 't  the  King,  and  undertake  to  be 
Her  advocate  to  the  loudest.     We  do  not  know 
How  he  may  soften  at  the  sight  o'  the  child. 
The  silence  often  of  pure  innocence 
Persuades,  when  speaking  fails.  .  .  . 

Keeper.    Madam,  if  't  please  the  Queen  to  send  the  babe, 
I  know  not  what  I  shall  incur  to  pass  it, 
Having  no  warrant. 

Paulina.  Do  not  you  fear  ;  upon 

Mine  honor  I  will  stand  'twixt  you  and  danger. 

Scene  3. 

With  the  baby  in  her  arms  Paulina  forces  her  way  into 
Leontes'  presence,  and  wakes  him  from  his  slumber.  Exas- 
perated by  her  reproaches,  he  orders  the  infant  to  be  burned, 


20  The  Winter 's  Tale, 

and  turns  upon  Antigonus,  Paulina's  husband.  All  present 
join  in  entreating  him  to  have  mercy.  The  babe  Hes  at  his 
feet,  where  it  has  been  placed  by  Paulina. 

I  Lord.  Beseech  your  highness, 

We  have  truly  served  you  :  on  our  knees  we  beg, 
As  recompense  for  our  dear  services 
Past  and  to  come,  that  you  do  change  this  purpose, 
Which,  being  so  horrible,  so  bloody,  must 
Lead  on  to  some  foul  issue.     We  all  kneel. 

Leontes.     I  am  a  feather  to  each  wind  that  blows  ; 
Shall  I  live  on  to  see  this  bastard  kneel 
And  call  me  father  ?     Better  burn  it  now 
Than  curse  it  then.     But  be  so.     Let  it  live.  .  .  . 
It  shall  not  neither.  .  .  . 

[To  Antigoniis.']  You,  sir,  come  you  hither  ; 

You  that  have  been  so  tenderly  officious 
With  Lady  Margery,  your  midwife  there. 
To  save  this  bastard's  life,  —  for  Vw  a  bastard. 
So  sure  as  this  beard  's  gray,  —  what  will  you  adventure 
To  save  this  brat's  life  ? 

Antigonus.  Anything,  my  lord. 

That  my  ability  may  undergo 
And  nobleness  impose  ;  at  least  thus  much : 
I  '11  pawn  the  little  blood  which  I  have  left 
To  save  the  innocent,  —  anything  possible. 

Leontes.     It  shall  be  possible.     Swear  by  this  sword 
Thou  wilt  perform  my  bidding. 

Antigonus.  I  will,  my  lord. 

Leontes.     Mark  and  perform  it  (see'st  thou  ?) ;  for  the  fail 
Of  any  point  in  't  shall  not  only  be 
Death  to  thyself,  but  to  thy  loud-tongued  wife, 
Whom  for  this  time  we  pardon.     We  enjoin  thee, 
As  thou  art  liegeman  to  us,  that  thou  carry 
This  female  bastard  hence  ;  and  that  thou  bear  it 
To  some  remote  and  desert  place,  quite  out 
Of  our  dominions  ;  and  that  there  thou  leave  it. 
Without  more  mercy,  to  its  own  protection 
And  favor  of  the  climate.    As  by  strange  fortune 


The  Winter's  Tale,  2i 

It  came  to  us,  I  do  in  justice  charge  thee  — 
On  thy  soul's  peril,  and  thy  body's  torture  — 
That  thou  commend  it  strangely  to  some  place 
Where  chance  may  nurse  or  end  it.     Take  it  up. 

Antigomcs  [lifimg  the  bal>e\.     I  swear  to  do  this,  though  a  present 
death 
Had  been  more  merciful.     Come  on,  poor  babe  ! 
Some  powerful  spirit  instruct  the  kites  and  ravens 
To  be  thy  nurses !     Wolves  and  bears,  they  say, 
Casting  their  savageness  aside,  have  done 
Like  offices  of  pity. 

Act  III.     Scene  i. 

The  messengers,  returning  from  Delphos  after  a  prosperous 
and  delightful  journey,  are  shocked  to  find  Hermione's  guilt 
set  forth  on  all  the  walls  by  proclamation.  How  natural  it 
is  that,  their  heads  being  full  of  what  they  have  enjoyed  and 
seen,  they  cannot  at  once  adjust  their  minds  to  the  things 
around  them. 

Scene  2. 

This  is  in  a  so-called  court  of  justice,  but  Leontes  means 
to  have  everything  his  own  way.  The  court  must  find 
against  his  wife;  the  oracle  must  condemn  her. 

See  the  queenly  dignity  of  Hermione.  She  will  not  break 
out  into  reproaches  against  her  king  and  husband,  but  one 
is  conscious  she  is  feeling  contempt  for  him ;  and  one  sees 
how  a  sense  of  her  great  wrongs  has  entered  into  her  soul. 

Hermione.     Since  what  I  am  to  say  must  be  but  that 
Which  contradicts  my  accusation,  and 
The  testimony  on  my  part  no  other 
But  what  comes  from  myself,  it  shall  scarce  boot  me 
To  say,  Not  guilty.     Mine  integrity. 
Being  counted  falsehood,  shall,  as  I  express  it, 


22  The  Winter's  Tale, 


Be  so  received.     But  thus  :  If  powers  divine 

Behold  our  human  actions  (as  they  do), 

I  doubt  not  then  but  innocence  shall  make 

False  accusation  blush,  and  tyranny 

Tremble  at  patience.     You,  my  lord,  best  know, 

Who  least  will  seem  to  do  so,  my  past  life 

Hath  been  as  continent,  as  chaste,  as  true, 

As  I  am  now  unhappy.  .  .  .  Behold  me  now, 

A  fellow  of  the  royal  bed,  which  owns 

A  moiety  of  the  throne,  a  great  king's  daughter, 

The  mother  to  a  hopeful  prince,  —  here  standing 

To  prate  and  talk  for  life  and  honor,  'fore 

Who  please  to  come  and  hear.     For  life,  I  prize  it 

As  I  weigh  grief,  which  I  would  spare  ;  for  honor  — 

'Tis  a  derivative  from  me  to  mine 

And  only  that  I  stand  for.     I  appeal 

To  your  own  conscience,  sir,  —  before  Polixenes 

Came  to  your  court,  how  was  I  in  your  grace.'* 

How  merited  to  be  so  .? 

Since  he  came  if  I  have  ever  stepped  beyond 

The  bound  of  honor,  or,  in  act,  or  will 

That  way  inclined  me,  hardened  be  the  hearts 

Of  all  that  hear  me,  and  my  nearest  kin 

Cry,  Fie  upon  my  grave  ! 

Leontes.  I  ne'er  heard  yet 

That  any  of  the  bolder  vices  wanted 
Less  impudence  to  gainsay  what  they  did. 
Than  to  perform  it  first. 

Hermione.  That 's  true  enough , 

Though  't  is  a  saying,  sir,  not  due  to  me. 
For  Polixenes, 

With  whom  I  am  accused,  I  do  confess 
I  loved  him  as  in  honor  he  required, 
With  such  a  kind  of  love  as  might  become 
A  lady  like  me,  —  with  a  love  even  such, 
So  and  no  other,  as  yourself  commanded. 
Which  not  to  have  done  I  think  had  been  in  me 
Both  disobedience  and  ingratitude, 
To  you,  and  toward  your  friend,  whose  love  had  spoke. 
E'en  since  it  could  speak,  from  an  infant,  freely. 


The  Winter's  Tale,  23 

That  it  was  yours.     Now,  for  conspiracy, 

All  that  I  know  of  it 

Is  that  Camillo  was  an  honest  man  ; 

And  why  he  left  your  court,  the  gods  themselves, 

Wotting  no  more  than  I,  are  ignorant. 

Leontes.     You  knew  of  his  departure. 
You  are  past  all  shame  ;  those  of  your  sort  are  so. 
Thy  brat  hath  been  cast  out,  like  to  itself 
No  father  owning  it  (which  is  indeed 
More  criminal  in  thee  than  it)  :  so  thou 
Shalt  feel  our  justice,  — in  whose  easiest  passage 
Look  for  no  less  than  death. 

Hermione.  Sir,  spare  your  threats  ; 

The  bug  1  which  you  would  fright  me  with  I  seek. 
To  me  can  life  be  no  commodity ; 
The  crown  and  comfort  of  my  life,  your  favor, 
I  do  give  lost,  —  for  I  do  feel  it  gone. 
But  know  not  how  it  went ;  my  second  joy 
And  first-fruits  of  my  body,  from  his  presence 
I  am  barred  like  one  infectious ;  my  third  comfort. 
Starred  most  unluckily,  is  from  my  breast  — 
The  innocent  milk  in  its  most  innocent  mouth  — 
Haled  out  to  murder.     Myself  on  every  post 
Proclaimed  a  strumpet ;  with  immodest  hatred 
The  child-bed  privilege  denied,  which  'longs 
To  women  of  all  fashion  ;  lastly,  hurried 
Here  to  this  place  i'  the  open  air,  before 
I  have  regained  my  strength.     Now,  good  my  liege. 
Tell  me  what  blessings  I  have  here  alive 
That  I  should  fear  to  die  !     Therefore  proceed ; 
But  yet  hear  this,  —  mistake  me  not ;  no !  life, 
I  prize  it  not  a  straw,  —  but  for  mine  honor 
Which  I  would  free,  if  I  shall  be  condemned 
Upon  surrnises  —  all  proofs  sleeping  else 
But  what  your  jealousies  awake  —  I  tell  you 
'T  is  rigor,  and  not  law  !     Your  honors  all, 

1  The  Elizabethan  word  for  terror.  The  verse  in  King  James'  Bible 
which  reads :  "  Thou  shalt  not  be  afraid  for  any  terror  by  night "  — 
stands  in  an  earlier  version:  "Thou  shalt  not  be  afraid  for  any  bug  by 
night,"  etc. 


24  The  Winter's  Tale. 

I  do  refer  me  to  the  oracle ; 
Apollo  be  my  judge. 

I  Lord.  This  your  request 

Is  altogether  just :  therefore  bring  forth. 
And  in  Apollo's  name,  his  oracle. 

\Exeunt  certain  officer s.\ 

Hermione.    The  Emperor  of  Russia  was  my  father ; 

0  that  he  were  alive,  and  here  beholding 
His  daughter's  trial !  that  he  did  but  see 
The  flatness  of  my  misery  ;  yet  with  eyes 
Of  pity,  not  revenge ! 

The  oracle  returns  this  answer :  *'  Hermione  is  chaste, 
Polixenes  blameless,  Camillo  a  true  subject,  Leontes  a 
jealous  tryant,  his  innocent  babe  truly  begotten ;  and  the 
King  shall  live  without  an  heir  if  that  which  is  lost  be  not 
found." 

Leontes.  Hast  thou  read  truth  ? 

Officer.  Ay,  my  lord,  even  so 

As  it  is  here  set  down. 

Leontes.  There  is  no  truth  at  all  i'  the  oracle  ! 
The  sessions  shall  proceed ;  this  is  mere  falsehood. 

At  this  moment  arrives  news  that  Mamillius,  the  pretty 
boy  torn  from  his  mother's  side,  who  has  been  ailing  ever 
since  he  lost  her  care,  is  dead.  Hermione  faints  away. 
Leontes  is  suddenly  struck  with  the  idea  that  he  may  have 
been  unjust.  He  orders  his  wife's  removal,  and  that  care 
shall  be  taken  of  her,  but  he  does  not  spring  to  her  side. 
He  cannot  yet  forgive  her  his  own  fault,  but  as  he  thinks 
over  the  matter  his  senses  return  to  him,  and  he  says  :  — 

Apollo  pardon 
My  great  profaneness  'gainst  thine  oracle  !  — 

1  '11  reconcile  me  with  Polixenes, 

New  woo  my  Queen,  recall  the  good  Camillo, 
Whom  I  proclaim  a  man  of  truth,  of  mercy. 


The  Winter's  Tale.  25 

For,  being  transported  by  my  jealousies 

To  bloody  thoughts  and  to  revenge,  I  chose 

Camillo  for  the  minister,  to  poison 

My  friend  Polixenes  ;  which  had  been  done 

But  that  the  good  mind  of  Camillo  tardied 

My  swift  command  ;  though  I,  with  death  and  with 

Reward,  did  threaten  and  encourage  him. 

He,  most  humane 
And  filled  with  honor,  to  my  kingly  guest 
Unclasped  my  practice;  quit  his  fortunes  here, 
Which  you  knew  great,  and  to  the  certain  hazard 
Of  all  uncertainties  himself  commended. 
No  richer  thaii  his  honor.     How  he  glisters 
Thorough  my  rust !     And  how  his  piety 
Does  my  deeds  make  the  blacker ! 

In  this  speech  the  more  Leontes  says,  the  more  he  works 
himself  up  to  a  sense  of  the  blackness  of  his  injurious 
suspicions. 

In  this  stage  of  his  repentance  Paulina  rushes  in  with  news 
of  Hermione's  death,  and  assuredly  does  not  spare  her  royal 
master.  A  sentence  in  her  speech  bears  out  my  description 
of  Leontes  as  a  difficult  husband ,  —  "  Thy  bygone  fooleries 
were  but  spices  to  it ! " 

O  thou  tyrant  I 
Do  not  repent  these  things,  for  they  are  heavier 
Than  all  thy  woes  can  stir ;  therefore  betake  thee 
To  nothing  but  despair.     A  thousand  knees, 
Ten  thousand  years  together,  naked,  fasting, 
Upon  a  barren  mountain,  and  still  winter, 
In  storm  perpetual,  could  not  move  the  gods 
To  look  that  way  thou  wert  ! 

Leontes.  Go  on,  go  on ! 

Thou  canst  not  speak  too  much  ;  I  have  deserved 
All  tongues  to  talk  their  bitterest. 

I  Lord  \to  Patdina] .  Say  no  more  ; 

Howe'er  the  business  goes,  you  have  made  fault 
I'  the  boldness  of  your  speech. 


26  The  Winter's  Tale. 

Paulina.  I  am  sorry  for  't. 

All  faults  I  make,  when  I  shall  come  to  know  them, 
I  do  repent.     Alas  !  I  have  showed  too  much 
The  rashness  of  a  woman.     He  is  touched 
To  the  noble  heart. 

\She  turns  to  Leontes.]    What 's  gone  and  what 's  past  help 
Should  be  past  grief.     Do  not  receive  affliction 
At  my  petition,  I  beseech  you  ;  rather 
Let  me  be  punished  that  have  reminded  you 
Of  what  you  should  forget.     Now,  good  my  liege, 
Sir,  royal  sir,  forgive  a  foolish  woman ; 
The  love  I  bore  your  queen,  —  lo,  fool  again  !  — 
I  '11  speak  of  her  no  more,  nor  of  your  children. 
I  '11  not  remember  you  of  my  own  lord, 
Who  is  lost  too.    Take  your  patience  to  you, 
And  I  '11  say  nothing. 

Scene  3. 

Antigonus,  with  the  babe,  has  reached  the  sea-coast  of 
Bohemia.  The  babe  is  laid  upon  the  grass,  and  Antigonus 
is  chased  away  by  a  bear.  Then  a  shepherd  comes  upon 
the  scene,  followed  by  his  clownish  boy.  He  begins  grum- 
bling at  some  hunters  who  have  driven  off  two  of  his  sheep. 
He  will  never  find  them,  he  says ;  or  if  he  does,  it  will  be  by 
the  sea-shore,  browsing  upon  ivy.  How  Shakspeare  knew 
the  secrets  of  nature  !  A  great  many  years  ago  I  heard  a 
gentleman  in  Virginia  remark  that  sheep  were  often  poisoned 
by  eating  shoots  of  ivy. 

The  babe  is  picked  up  by  the  old  man  and  his  son, 
together  with  gold  for  its  keeping ;  and  the  half-eaten  re- 
mains of  poor  Antigonus  (who  has  been  killed  by  the 
bear)  are  piously  committed  to  the  earth  by  the  two 
shepherds.  One  is  very  sorry  for  Antigonus,  but  his  dis- 
appearance from  the  scene  is  essential  to  the  after-part  of 
the  story. 


The  Winter's  Tale,  27 


Act  IV. 

Time  enters  and  informs  the  audience  concerning  the 
events  of  the  past  fifteen  years. 

We  are  told  that  Leontes  grieves  for  the  effects  of  his  rash 
jealousies. 

Some  people  have  wondered  why  Hermione,  who  is  still 
alive,  should  have  excluded  herself  all  these  years  from  her 
husband.  Surely,  patient  Grizzel  or  Enid  might  have  felt  all 
wifely  ^legiance  to  Leontes  dissolved  by  his  behavior. 
Hermione  was  a  queen  and  mother,  as  well  as  a  wife.  As 
queen,  she  had  borne  degradation;  as  mother,  one  child 
had  died  through  the  tyranny  of  her  husband,  the  other  had 
been  cast  away.  To  have  condoned  all  this  would  have 
been  to  lower  the  character  of  Hermione.  She  cannot 
properly  forgive  Leontes  till  one  child  is  restored  to  her. 
Remember  that  if  Desdemona  —  if  Imogen  —  could  forgive, 
they  could,  through  all  their  wrongs,  respect  their  husbands. 
The  murder  of  no  children  lay  at  Othello's  or  Posthumus' 
doors.  Hermione  as  a  wife  has  been  repeatedly  and  pub- 
licly insulted.  He  to  whom  she  gave  herself  has  stooped  to 
baseness  and  cruelty  inconceivable.  She  knows  the  inmost 
nature  of  the  man.  Even  if  she  could  bring  herself  to  return 
to  him  as  his  wife,  it  is  doubtful  whether  she  could  possibly 
make  him  happy.  She  had  failed  in  the  pride  of  her  youth, 
her  beauty,  and  her  unsmirched  purity;  since  he  has  dis- 
solved the  bands  that  bound  her  to  him,  she  accepts  her 
release,  —  and  in  my  opinion  justly.  As  to  repentance  —  she 
has  known  him  repent  a  hundred  times.  Nothing,  it  seems 
to  me,  need  constrain  her  again  to  take  on  her  his  yoke,  but 
the  welfare  of  her  child. 


28  The  Winter's  Tale. 


Scene  i. 

This  new  part  of  the  play  opens  with  a  scene  between 
Polixenes  and  Camillo.  The  latter  has  been  the  faithful 
prime  councillor  of  the  King  of  Bohemia  these  fifteen  years. 
He  is  getting  anxious  to  return  to  his  own  country.  "  The 
penitent  King  "  whom  he  still  calls  "  master  "  has  sent  for 
him,  and  he  thinks  he  might  comfort  him  in  his  loneliness 
and  old  age.  For  Leontes  is  old  now ;  he  was  a  gray-beard 
sixteen  years  before.  He  can  hardly  be  far  short  of  seventy. 
But  it  is  now  Polixenes'  turn  to  press  his  guest  to  stay  with 
him.  There  is  a  gentlemanliness  and  kindliness  about  Pol- 
ixenes which  are  very  attractive.  "Of  that  fatal  country, 
Sicily,"  he  says,  "  prithee  speak  no  more.  Its  very  naming 
punishes  me  with  the  remembrance  of  that  ^penitent,'  as 
thou  callest  him,  and  reconciled  king,  my  brother,  whose  loss 
of  his  most  precious  queen  and  children  are  even  now  to  be 
fresh-lamented."  Then  he  turns  to  a  family  trouble,  in  which 
he  thinks  Camillo  may  advise  him.  Prince  Florizel  absents 
himself  from  Court.  His  father  has  heard  he  haunts  a 
shepherd's  hut,  and  that  the  shepherd  has  grown  rich  myste- 
riously. Camillo  helps  him  in  his  confidence.  The  father 
has  not  liked  to  touch  on  the  most  delicate  point,  but 
Camillo  goes  straight  to  it :  the  shepherd  has  a  daughter 
of  most  rare  loveliness.  "Yes  —  that  is  what  troubles  me," 
says  Polixenes  in  substance.  "Let  us  disguise  ourselves, 
my  best  Camillo,  and  go  and  investigate  this  matter  for 
ourselves." 

Scene  2. 

This  next  scene  is  in  the  road  near  the  cottage  of  the 
shepherd.     In  comes  the  gypsy  scamp   Autolycus.     He  is 


The  Winter'' s   Tale.  29 


now  in  rags.  Once  he  had  been  serving-man  to  Prince 
Florizel,  and  worn  a  velvet  livery.  He  boldly  avers  that  he 
lives  by  thieving.  In  his  own  words,  he  is  "  a  snapper-up  of 
unconsidered  trifles."  His  principal  revenue,  however,  comes 
from  stealing  linen  spread  out  to  bleach  upon  the  grass  or  on 
the  hedges.  In  Shakspeare's  time,  it  seems,  such  thefts 
were  punished  by  whipping  and  the  stocks ;  later  there  came 
to  be  so  many  Autolycuses  that  to  steal  hnen  put  out  to 
bleach  was  made  a  capital  crime.  I  have  some  volumes  of 
the  Annual  Register  in  George  II. 's  time,  and  it  is  frightful 
to  read  the  record  of  poor  wretches  hung  at  Tyburn  for  this 
offence.  As  women  spun  their  own  linen  on  hand-looms  in 
their  own  cottages,  of  course  their  "  webs  "  were  often  laid 
out  to  bleach  upon  the  hedges,  and  the  loss  was  a  very 
serious  one  to  them.  Autolycus  avows  himself  a  "  prig  "  — 
the  meanest  kind  of  thief.  He  has  not  courage  to  be  a  high- 
wayman, indeed  he  dreads  all  hardships  and  all  punishment. 
As  to  everlasting  punishment  he  puts  the  thought  of  it  aside 
as  inconvenient.  At  this  point  in  his  soliloquy  there  passes 
by  the  kindly  shepherd-clown,  brother  by  adoption  to  Per- 
dita.  He  is  taking  money  to  the  market-town  to  buy  good 
things  for  the  sheep-shearing  feast,  —  sugar,  currants,  nutmegs, 
ginger,  prunes,  raisins,  and  coloring  for  stewed  pears.  He 
is  startled,  as  he  endeavors  to  make  some  mental  calcula- 
tions, by  seeing  a  man  grovelling  in  a  ditch,  uttering  piercing 
cries  for  help.  It  is  Autolycus.  He  says  he  has  been 
robbed  and  beaten,  and  that  he  thinks  his  shoulder-blade 
is  broken. 

Clown.     What  manner  of  fellow  was  he  that  robbed  you  ? 
Autolycus.     A  fellow,  sir,  that  I  have  known  in  the  worst  company. 
I  knew  him  once  a  servant  of  the  Prince.     He  hath  been  since  an 


30 


The  Winter's  Tale. 


ape-bearer ;  then  a  process-server,  a  bailifif;  then  he  compassed  a 
motion  of  the  prodigal  son,  and  married  a  tinker's  wife  within  a  mile 
where  my  land  and  living  lies ;  and  having  flown  over  many  knavish 
professions,  he  settled  only  on  rogue :  some  call  him  Autolycus. 

Clown.  Out  upon  him !  Prig,  for  my  life,  prig.  He  haunts  wakes, 
fairs,  and  bear-baitings. 

Autolycus.  Very  true,  sir,  he,  sir,  he.  That 's  the  rogue  that  put 
me  into  this  apparel. 

Clown.  Not  a  more  cowardly  rogue  in  all  Bohemia.  If  you  had 
but  looked  big  and  spit  at  him,  he  'd  have  run. 

Autolycus.  I  must  confess  to  you,  sir,  I  am  no  fighter.  I  am  false 
of  heart  that  way,  and  that  he  knew,  I  warrant  him. 

The  extreme  kindliness  and  gullibility  of  the  shepherd- 
lad  are  delightful.  Autolycus  takes  advantage  of  his  chari- 
table assistance  to  pick  his  pocket.  Hazlitt  dwells  with 
delight  on  his  remembrance  of  Bannister's  acting  in  this 
scene,  on  a  night  when  Mrs.  Siddons  played  Hermione, 
Kemble  Leontes,  and  Mrs.  Jordan  Perdita.  Strange  to  say, 
we  are  fiot  very  sorry  for  the  clown's  disappointment  when 
he  misses  his  purse,  knowing  that  somehow  there  was 
"  plenty  of  spice  and  all  that 's  nice  "  at  the  sheep-shearing 
supper. 

Scene  2,' 

We  are  now  in  the  cottage  of  the  shepherd,  with  Prince 
Florizel  and  Perdita. 

"  The  distinguishing  traits  of  Perdita,"  says  Mrs.  Jameson, 
"are  sentiment  and  elegance.  She  is  the  union  of  the  pas- 
toral and  romantic  with  the  classical  and  poetical, —  as  if  a 
dryad  of  the  woods  had  turned  shepherdess.  The  perfec- 
tions with  which  Shakspeare  has  so  lavishly  endowed  her 
sit  on  her  with  a  certain  picturesque  grace."  We  first  meet 
her  dressed  as  Flora  for  the  sheep-shearing  —  I  think  by 
Prince  Florizel's  suggestion.     Not  for  one  moment  have  we 


The   Winter  s  Tale.  31 

any  fears  for  Perdita,  nor  has  she  for  herself.  She  may  be 
heart-broken  by  separation  from  her  lover,  but  her  honor  is 
safe  in  Prince  Florizel's  hands.  He  is  dressed  like  a  shep- 
herd, and  delights  in  her  adornments  as  making  her  tem- 
porarily above  him.  She  is  comparing,  when  we  see  her  first, 
her  own  lowliness  of  station  with  his  princely  rank  (for 
even  as  to  his  rank  in  life  he  has  not  deceived  her),  and 
expresses  fears  that  their  marriage  cannot  turn  out  happily. 
"But  with  all  her  timidity,  and  her  sense  of  the  distance 
which  separates  her  from  her  lover,  she  breathes  not  a 
single  word  which  could  lead  us  to  impugn  either  her 
delicacy  or  her  dignity."  Indeed,  her  dignity  is  enhanced 
by  her  hesitations. 

Perdita.  Sir,  my  gracious  lord, 

To  chide  at  your  extremes  it  not  becomes  me  ; 
O,  pardon  that  I  name  them.     Your  high  self. 
The  gracious  mark  of  the  land,  you  have  obscured 
With  a  swain's  wearing ;  and  me,  poor  lowly  maid, 
Most  goddess-like  pranked  up.     But  that  our  feasts 
In  every  mess  have  folly,  and  the  feeders 
Digest  it  with  a  custom,  I  should  blush 
To  see  you  so  attired. 

Florizel.  I  bless  the  time 

When  my  good  falcon  made  her  flight  across 
Thy  father's  ground. 

Perdita.  Now  Jove  afford  you  cause  I 

To  me  the  difference  forges  dread.     Your  greatness 
Hath  not  been  used  to  fear.     E'en  now  I  tremble 
To  think  your  father,  by  some  accident. 
Should  pass  this  way,  as  you  did.     O,  the  Fates ! 
How  would  he  look  to  see  his  work,  so  noble, 
Vilely  bound  up  ?     What  would  he  say  ?     Or  how 
Should  I,  in  these  my  borrowed  flaunts,  behold 
The  sternness  of  his  presence  ? 

Florizel,  Apprehend 

Nothing  but  jollity. 


32 


The  Winter  s   Tale. 


And  so  with  tender  words,  and  reiterations  of  his  vows  of 
love  and  marriage,  he  entreats  her  to  cheer  up,  and  look 

as  if  it  were  the  day 
Of  celebration  of  that  nuptial,  which 
We  two  have  sworn  shall  come. 

Here  the  good  shepherd  enters,  with  PoHxenes  and  Camillo, 
so  disguised  that  Florizel  does  not  recognize  them ;  they  are 
followed  by  a  crowd  of  rustic  shepherd-girls,  foils  to  fair  Per- 
dita.  When  she  presents  the  flowers  to  PoHxenes  and 
Camillo,  she  is  charming  !  Camillo  is  as  much  impressed 
by  her  as  is  his  master,  but  he  leaves  admiring  words  to 
Polixenes.  In  the  passage  where  Polixenes,  forgetful  that 
the  theory  he  is  advancing  about  grafts  bears  on  his  son's 
case  and  her  own,  argues  with  her  about  gillyflowers,  how 
charming  and  how  womanly  she  is  !  "  She  is  not  convinced, 
but  she  does  not  attempt  to  answer  his  reasoning.  Woman- 
like, she  gives  up  the  argument,  but  woman-like  retains  her 
own  conviction,  her  sense  of  right,  unshaken  by  his  sophis- 
try." "  She  goes  on  talking  to  Florizel  in  a  strain  of  poetry 
which  comes  over  the  soul  like  music  and  fragrance  mingled. 
We  seem  to  inhale  the  blended  odors  of  a  thousand  flowers, 
till  the  sense  faints  with  their  sweetness."  We  cannot  afford 
to  miss  a  hne  of  this  sweet  scene. 

Florizel.  See,  your  guests  approach  ; 

Address  yourself  to  entertain  them  sprightly, 
And  let's  be  red  with  mirth. 

Shepherd.     Fie,  daughter  !     When  my  old  wife  lived,  upon 
This  day  she  was  both  pantler,  butler,  cook,  — 
Both  dame  and  servant;  welcomed  all,  served  all; 
Would  sing  her  song,  or  dance  her  turn :  now  here, 
At  upper  end  o'  the  table,  now  i'  the  middle ; 
On  his  shoulder  and  his,  —  her  face  afire 
With  labor  ;  and  the  thing  she  took  to  quench  it, 


The  Winter^ s   Tale,  33 

She  would  to  each  one  sip.     You  are  retired, 
As  if  you  were  a  feasted  one,  and  not 
The  hostess  of  the  meeting.     Pray  you,  bid 
These  unknown  friends  to  us  welcome ;  for  it  is 
A  way  to  make  us  better  friends  —  more  known. 
Come,  quench  your  blushes,  and  present  yourself, 
That  which  you  are,  mistress  o'  the  feast.     Come  on, 
And  bid  us  welcome  to  your  sheep-shearing, 
As  your  good  flock  shall  prosper. 

Perdita  \to  Polixenes\.  Welcome,  sir  ! 

It  is  my  father's  vyill  I  should  take  on  me 
The  hostess-ship  o'  the  day. 

\To  Camillo.]  You  're  welcome,  sir  ! 

Give  me  those  flowers  there,  Dorcas.     Reverend  sirs, 
For  you  there 's  rosemary  and  rue.     These  keep 
Seeming  and  savor  all  the  winter  long. 
Grace  and  remembrance  be  to  you  both, 
And  welcome  to  our  shearing. 

Polixenes.  Shepherdess, 

A  fair  one  are  you,  well  you  fit  our  ages 
With  flowers  of  winter. 

Perdita.  Sir,  the  year  growing  ancient,  — 

Not  yet  on  summer's  death,  nor  on  the  birth 
Of  trembling  winter,  — the  fairest  flowers  o'  the  season 
Are  our  carnations,  and  streaked  gillyflowers, 
Which  some  call  Nature's  bastards.     Of  that  kind 
Our  rustic  garden 's  barren  ;  and  I  care  not 
To  get  slips  of  them. 

.  Polixettes.  Wherefore,  gentle  maiden. 

Do  you  neglect  them  ? 

Perdita.  For  I  have  heard  it  said 

There  is  an  art  which,  in  their  piedness,  shares 
With  great  creating  Nature. 

Polixenes.  Say  there  be  — 

Yet  nature  is  made  better  by  no  mean 
But  nature  makes  that  mean.     So  o'er  that  art 
Which  you  say  adds  to  nature,  is  an  art 
Which  nature  makes.     You  see,  sweet  maid,  we  marry 
A  gentler  scion  to  the  wildest  stock, 
And  make  conceive  a  bark  of  baser  kind 


34  The  Winter's  Tale. 

By  bud  of  nobler  race.     This  is  an  art 

Which  does  mend  nature  —  change  it  rather,  but 

The  art  itself  is  nature. 

Perdita.  So  it  is. 

Polixenes.     Then  make  your  garden  rich  in  gillyflowers, 
And  do  not  call  them  bastards. 

Perdita.  I'll  not  put 

The  dibble  in  earth  to  set  one  slip  of  them, 
No  more  than,  were  I  painted,  I  would  wish 
This  youth  should  say  't  were  well  — 

\To  the  rest.]  .    Here 's  flowers  (or you. 

Hot  lavender,  mints,  savory,  marjoram. 
The  marigold,  that  goes  to  bed  with  the  sun. 
And  with  him  risds  weeping.     These  are  flowers 
Of  middle  summer,  and  I  think  are  given 
To  men  of  middle  age. 

{Receiving  thanks.]       You  are  very  welcome. 

Camillo.     I  should  leave  grazing  were  I  of  your  flock, 
And  live  by  gazing. 

Perdita.  Out !  —  alas, 

You  'd  be  so  lean  that  blasts  of  January 
Would  blow  you  through  and  through. 

\She  turns  to  others?^     Now,  my  fairest  friend, 
I  would  I  had  some  flowers  o'  the  spring,  that  might 
Become  your  time  of  day  —  and  yours  —  and  yours. 
O  Proserpina ! 

For  the  flowers  now  that,  frighted,  thou  letst  fall 
From  Dis's  wagon,  —  daffodils, 
That  come  before  the  swallow  dares,  and  take 
The  winds  of  March  with  beauty  ;  violets,  dim. 
But  sweeter  than  the  lids  of  Juno's  eyes, 
Or  Cytherea's  breath  ;  pale  primroses, 
That  die  unmarried  ere  they  can  behold 
Bright  Phoebus  in  his  strength,  —  a  malady 
Most  incident  to  maids  ;  bold  oxlips,  and 
The  crown-imperial ;  lilies  of  all  kinds, 
,  The  flower-de-luce  being  one.     Oh  !  these  I  lack 
xTo  make  you  garlands  of 

[  Then  turning  to  FlorizeL]     And,  my  sweet  friend, 
To  strew  him  o'er  and  o'er. 


The  Winter's   Tale.  35 

Florizel.  What  ?  —  like  a  corse  ? 

Perdita,     No  —  like  a  bank,  for  love  to  lie  and  play  on ; 
Not  like  a  corse,  or  if,  —  not  to  be  buried. 
But  living  in  mine  arms. 

\To  others^  Come,  take  your  flowers. 

ITo  Florizel.^     Methinks  I  play  as  I  have  seen  them  do 
In  Whitsun  pastorals  ;  sure,  this  robe  of  mine 
Doth  change  my  disposition. 

Florizel.  What  you  do 

Still  betters  what  is  done.     When  you  speak,  sweet, 
I  'd  have  you  do  it  ever ;  when  you  sing, 
I  'd  have  you  buy  and  sell  so,  so  give  alms, 
Pray  so  ;  and  for  the  ordering  your  affairs, 
To  sing  them  too.     When  you  do  dance,  I  wish  you 
A  wave  o'  the  sea,  that  you  might  ever  do 
Nothing  but  that,  —  move  still,  still  so,  and  own 
No  other  function. 

Perdita.  O  Doricles ! 

Your  praises  are  too  large.    But  that  your  youth 
And  the  true  blood  which  fairly  peeps  through  it 
Do  plainly  give  you  out  an  unstained  shepherd, 
With  wisdom  I  might  fear,  my  Doricles, 
You  wooed  me  the  false  way. 

Florizel.  I  think  you  have 

As  little  skill  to  fear  as  I  have  purpose 
To  put  you  to  it.     But  come,  one  dance  I  pray ; 
Your  hand,  my  Perdita.     So  turtles  pair 
That  never  mean  to  part 

Perdita.  I  '11  swear  for  them. 

Polixenes.     This  is  the  prettiest  low-born  lass  that  ever 
Ran  on  the  green-sward.     Nothing  she  does  or  seems 
But  smacks  of  something  greater  than  herself,  — 
Too  noble  for  this  place. 

Camillo.  He  tells  her  something 

That  makes  her  blood  look  out.     Good  sooth,  she  is 
The  queen  of  curds  and  cream. 

As  the  shepherd  is  conversing  with  Polixenes  during  the 
pauses  of  the  dance,  telling  him  how  Doricles  (the  alias 
of  Florizel)  is  in  love  with  his  daughter,  and  how,  if  he 


36  The  Winter's  Tale. 

marries  her,  she  shall  bring  him  that  he  little  dreams  of,  a 
servant  comes  in  announcing  a  pedler.  His  speech  gives  us 
a  peep  into  English  rural  life,  rather  than  that  of  Bohemia. 
Points  are  colored  laces  (that  is,  like  shoe-laces  or  corset- 
laces),  with  tags  to  them  ;  they  were  used  for  lacing  up  men's 
clothes.  Inkles  are  tapes.  Caddisses,  what  we  now  call 
skirt-braids.  A  smock  is  an  under-garment,  either  shirt  or 
chemise ;  the  sleeve-hand  is  the  cuff,  the  square  the  shirt- 
bosom.  It  is  a  sweet  trait  of  Perdita's  native  delicacy  that, 
as  mistress  of  the  feast,  she  charges  her  foster-brother  to 
forewarn  the  ballad-singer  to  use  no  scurrilous  words  in  his 
tunes. 

Servant.  O  masters,  if  you  did  but  hear  the  pedler  at  the  door 
you  would  never  dance  again  after  a  pipe  and  tabor.  No!  the  bag- 
pipe would  not  move  you.  He  sings  several  tunes  faster  than  you  can 
tell  money.  He  utters  them  as  he  had  eaten  ballads,  and  men's  ears 
grew  to  his  tunes ! 

Clcwn.  He  could  never  come  better  ;  he  shall  come  in.  I  love  a 
ballad  even  too  well,  —  if  it  be  a  doleful  matter-merrily  set  down,  or  a 
very  pleasant  thing  indeed  and  sung  lamentably. 

Servant.  He  hath  songs,  for  man  or  woman,  of  all  sizes.  No 
milliner  can  so  fit  his  customers  with  gloves.  He  has  the  prettiest 
love-songs  for  maids,  all  without  ribaldry,  which  is  strange.  .  .  .  He 
hath  ribands  of  all  colors  of  the  rainbow ;  points  more  than  all  the 
lawyers  in  Bohemia  can  learnedly  handle,  though  they  come  to  him 
by  the  gross  ;  inkles,  caddisses,  cambrics,  lawns,  —  why,  he  sings  them 
over  as  they  were  gods  and  goddesses ;  you  would  think  a  smock  were 
a  she-angel,  he  so  chaunts  to  the  sleeve-hand  and  the  work  about  the 
square  on  't. 

Clown.     Prithee  bring  him  in,  and  let  him  approach  singing. 
Perdita.     Forewarn  him  that  he  use  no  scurrilous  words  in  his  tunes. 
Enter  Autolycus,  singing. 
Lawn  as  white  as  driven  snow ; 
Cyprus  black  as  e'er  was  crow ; 
Gloves  as  sweet  as  damask  roses  ; 
Masks,  for  faces  or  for  noses  j 


The  Winter's  Tale.  37 

Bugle  bracelets,  necklace  amber  j 
Perfume  for  a  lady's  chamber ; 
Golden  coifs  and  stomachers, 
For  my  lads  to  give  their  dears ; 
Pins,  and  poking-sticks  of  steel ; 
What  maids  lack  from  head  to  heel. 
Come  buy  of  me ;  come  buy,  come  buy ! 
Buy,  lords,  or  else  your  lasses  cry ; 
Come  buy,  come  buy ! 

Meantime  Camillo  and  Polixenes  are  talking  with  the 
shepherd,  who  apparently  has  let  fall  some  hints  of  Perdita's 
history  which  strike  Camillo,  and  make  him  have  vague  sus- 
picions of  the  truth. 

Twelve  rustics  habited  as  satyrs  come  in  and  dance.  Then 
Polixenes,  having  found  out  all  he  came  to  learn,  thinks  it 
is  time  to  part  the  lovers.     But  first  he  turns  to  Florizel. 

Polixenes.  How  now,  fair  shepherd  ? 

Your  heart  is  full  of  something  that  does  take 
Your  mind  from  feasting.     Sooth  when  I  was  young, 
And  handed  love,  as  you  do,  I  was  wont 
To  load  my  girl  with  knacks.     I  would  have  ransacked 
The  pedler's  silken  treasury,  and  have  poured  it 
To  her  acceptance.     You  have  let  him  go, 
And  nothing  marted  with  him. 

Florizel.  Old  sir,  I  know 

She  prizes  not  such  trifles  as  these  are. 
The  gifts  she  seeks  from  me  are  packed  and  locked 
Up  in  my  heart ;  which  I  have  given  already 
But  not  delivered. 

Then  there  comes  the  thought  that  now  is  a  fit  occasion 
for  a  betrothal  before  witnesses,  such  a  betrothal  as,  though 
not  a  marriage,  was  deemed  the  sure  pledge  of  the  future 
ceremony.  He  turns  from  the  two  old  men,  men  evidently 
of  higher  standing  than  the  shepherds,  to  Perdita,  and  taking 
her  hand  says  :  — 


38  The  Winter's  Tale, 

O  !  hear  me  breathe  my  life 
Before  this  ancient  sir,  who,  it  should  seem, 
Hath  sometime  loved.     I  take  thy  hand,  this  hand. 
As  soft  as  dove's  down,  and  as  white  as  it.  .  .  . 

Polixenes.         What  follows  this? 
How  prettily  the  young  swain  seems  to  wash 
The  hand  was  fair  before  !     I  have  put  you  out. 
But  to  your  protestation.     Let  me  hear 
What  you  profess. 

Florizel.  Do,  and  be  witness  to 't. 

Polixenes.    And  this  my  neighbor  too  .'* 

Florizel.  And  he,  and  more 

Than  he  —  or  men  ;  the  earth,  the  heavens,  and  all, 
That  were  I  crowned  the  most  imperial  monarch, 
Thereof  most  worthy ;  were  I  the  fairest  youth 
That  ever  made  eye  swerve ;  had  force  and  knowledge 
More  than  were  ever  man's,  —  I  would  not  prize  them 
Without  her  love  ;  for  her  employ  them  all, 

Polixenes.     Fairly  offered. 

Camillo.  This  is  a  sound  affection. 

Shepherd.     But,  my  daughter,  say  you  the  like  to  him  ? 

Perdita.  I  cannot  speak 

As  well,  nothing  so  well,  —  no,  nor  mean  better. 
By  the  pattern  of  my  own  thoughts  I  cut  out 
The  purity  of  his. 

Shepherd.  Take  hands ;  a  bargain. 

And,  friends  unknown,  you  shall  bear  witness  to 't. 
I  give  my  daughter  to  him,  and  will  make 
Her  portion  equal  his. 

Florizel.  O  !  that  must  be 

I'  the  virtue  of  your  daughter.     Some  one  being  dead, 
I  shall  have  more  than  you  can  dream  of  yet,  — 
Enough  then  for  your  wonder.     But  come  on  ; 
Contract  us  'fore  these  witnesses. 

Shepherd.  Come,  your  hand. 

And,  daughter,  yours. 

Polixenes.     Soft  swain,  a  while,  beseech  you. 
Have  you  a  father  ? 

Florizel.  I  have  ;  but  what  of  him  "> 

Polixenes.     Knows  he  of  this } 

Florizel.  He  neither  does,  nor  shall. 


The  Winter's  Tale,  39 

Then  Polixenes  reasons  with  the  young  man,  pointing 
out  that  if  the  father  be  neither  imbecile,  very  aged,  nor 
unreasonable,  it  is  his  duty  to  consult  him  as  to  his  mar- 
riage. This  reasoning  having  failed,  Polixenes  condescends 
to  plead :  "  Prithee,  tell  him."  The  shepherd  joins  in 
the  entreaty :  "  He  shall  not  need  to  grieve  as  knowing  of 
thy  choice."  Then  Florizel  impatiently  exclaims  :  "  Come, 
come.  He  must  not  mark  our  contract."  "  Mark  your 
divorce,  young  sir,"  exclaims  the  father,  discovering  him- 
self. Exasperated  beyond  all  bounds  of  pity,  the  first  words 
of  Polixenes  are  cruel  threats  against  the  shepherd  and 
his  daughter.  He  repents,  and  revokes  his  sentence  almost 
as  soon  as  it  is  out  of  his  mouth ;  perchance  he  remembers 
what  followed  the  rashness  of  his  friend  Leontes.  But  he 
peremptorily  forbids  the  lovers  ever  to  meet  again,  and 
quits  the  scene  at  once,  leaving  them  in  the  presence  of 
Camillo  to  say  their  parting  words. 

"  Perdita  under  his  threats  had  shown  no  fear  whatever 
for  herself,  but  her  natural  loftiness  of  spirit  makes  her 
resent  menaces  and  revilings.  She  bears  the  royal  frown 
without  quailing,  but  the  moment  the  King  is  gone,  the 
immediate  recollection  of  herself,  and  of  her  low  estate, 
and  of  her  hapless  love  is  full  of  beauty,  tenderness,  and 
nature."  "How  more  than  exquisite,"  says  Coleridge,  "is 
her  speech  !  And  that  profound  touch  of  noble  pride  and 
grief  venting  themselves  in  a  momentary  peevishness  of 
resentment  against  Florizel,  — '  Will 't  please  you,  sir,  be 
gone?'" 

All  having  quitted  the  scene  but  Camillo  and  the  lovers, 
Florizel  tries  to  cheer  his  Perdita  by  protesting,  "  What  I 
was,  I  am." 


40  The  Winter's  Tale, 

Camillo  then  interposes,  reminding  Florizel  of  his  father's 
quick  temper,  and  recommending  him,  till  the  storm  is 
over,  to  keep  out  of  his  sight. 

Poor  Perdita  pays  little  heed  ;  but  says  :  — 

How  often  have  I  told  you  't  would  be  thus,  — 
How  often  said  my  dignity  would  last 
But  till  't  were  known. 

But  Florizel,  imploring  her  to  "lift  up  her  looks,"  makes 

his  manly  confession   of  an  unaltered   purpose   before  old 

Camillo. 

Camillo ! 
Not  for  Bohemia,  nor  the  pomp  that  may 
Be  thereat  gleaned  ;  for  all  the  sun  sees 
Or  the  close  earth  wombs,  or  the  profound  seas  hide 
In  unknown  fathoms,  will  I  break  my  oath 
To  this  my  fair  beloved.     Therefore  I  pray  you, 
As  you  have  been  my  father's  honored  friend, 
When  he  shall  miss  me  (as,  in  faith,  I  mean  not 
To  see  him  any  more,)  cast  your  good  counsels 
Upon  his  passion.     Let  myself  and  fortune 
Tug  for  the  time  to  come.     This  you  may  know 
And  so  deliver, —  I  am  put  to  sea 
With  her  whom  here  I  cannot  hold  on  shore  ; 
And  opportunely  in  our  need,  I  have 
A  ship  that  rides  hard  by,  but  not  prepared 
For  this  design.     What  course  I  mean  to  hold 
Shall  nothing  benefit  your  knowledge,  nor 
Concern  me  the  reopening. 

Florizel  is  justified  in  holding  fast  by  Perdita  in  spite  of 
his  father's  prohibition,  that  father  having  permitted  him  to 
betroth  —  or  almost  to  betroth  himself  to  her  in  his  pres- 
ence, and  to  receive  her  open  avowal  of  her  love.  Camillo 
proposes  they  should  make  for  Sicily,  —  Florizel  presenting 
himself  there  under  his  own  name,  as  ambassador  for  his 


The   Winter  s  Tale.  41 

father.  The  old  man  has  an  unexpressed  vague  hope  that 
Perdita  may  prove  the  lost  daughter  of  his  old  master, — 
not  hope  enough  to  communicate,  yet  hope  enough  to 
frame  his  advice  upon.     Courtier-like  he  adds, — 

Besides,  you  know, 
Prosperity  's  the  very  bond  of  love, 
Whose  fresh  complexion,  and  whose  heart  together 
Affliction  alters. 

Perdita  replies  with  sincerity  and  her  sweet  wisdom  :  — 

One  of  these  is  true  : 
I  think  affliction  may  subdue  the  cheek, 
But  not  lake  in  the  mind. 

As  Camillo  and  the  young  prince  talk  apart,  Autolycus 
comes  in.  By  peddling  and  by  pickpocketing  he  has  emptied 
nearly  every  purse  at  the  sheep-shearing.  He  would  have 
had  them  all,  he  says,  but  that  his  trade  was  stopped  by 
the  old  man,  "who  came  in  with  a  whoo-bub  against  his 
daughter  and  the  King's  son." 

Camillo  perceiving  Autolycus,  and  not  imagining  that  he 
recognizes  Prince  Florizel,  gets  him  to  change  clothes  with 
the  Prince.  To  Perdita  these  shifts  and  disguises  are  very 
painful,  yet  she  subdues  herself.  She  will  not  stand  in  the 
way  of  her  lover's  plans.     She  says,  — 

I  see  the  way  so  lies 
That  I  must  bear  a  part. 

"  No  remedy,"  replies  Camillo. 

When  they  are  all  gone  away  Autolycus  debates  whether 
to  betray  the  Prince,  "with  his  clog  at  his  heels,"  —  for  so 
he  designates  sweet  Perdita,  —  or  keep  his  secret;  and 
concludes  that  by  doing  the  last  he  may  *'  help  forward  the 
more  knavery." 


42  The  Winter's   Tale. 

Temptation  to  the  latter  is  at  hand.  As  Autolycus  re- 
flects that  "  Every  lane's  end,  every  shop,  session,  or  hanging, 
yields  a  careful  man  work,"  the  shepherd  and  his  son* are 
deploring  what  has  happened.  PoHxenes  indeed  had 
promised  to  spare  the  old  man's  life,  but  he  had  been 
too  frightened  to  understand  his  words.  The  son  argues 
that  if  the  King  is  told  that  Perdita  is  no  kin  of  theirs 
he  will  spare  them.  Having  overheard  their  talk,  Autolycus 
comes  forward,  and  being  in  Florizel's  clothes  and  without 
his  false  beard,  he  passes  himself  off  on  the  two  simple 
men  for  one  of  the  king's  courtiers.  In  this  character 
he  commands  the  pair  to  open  their  suit  to  him.  The 
young  man  is  greatly  impressed  by  the  new  "  advocate's  " 
air,  but  the  old  man  has  more  penetration,  and  says : 
"His  garments  are  rich  but  he  wears  them  not  hand- 
somely." Having  learned  that  the  matters  that  they 
wish  to  lay  before  the  King  are  in  a  box  and  fardel,  he 
proceeds  to  tell  them  that  the  king  is  not  in  the  palace, 
he  has  taken  ship  under  the  influence  of  his  grief, —  and 
thence  proceeds  to  discourse  on  the  awful  fate  awaiting 
the  shepherd  whose  daughter  has  aspired  to  wed  the  King's 
son.  "  Has  the  old  man  e'er  a  son,  sir  ?  "  asks  the  young 
shepherd,  trembling.  And  then  Autolycus  draws  upon  his 
invention  for  a  list  of  most  awful  pains  and  penalties 
awaiting  that  unfortunate.  He  succeeds  in  getting  large 
sums  of  money  out  of  the  terrified  rustics  to  stand  their 
friend,  and  promises  to  put  them  on  board  the  King's 
vessel,  —  meaning  really  to  embark  them  on  that  of  the 
Prince.  The  last  touch  in  the  conversation,  where  Autoly- 
cus lingers  behind  to  see  what  article  he  can  steal  from  a 
hedge,  is  delightful. 


The  Winter'' s  Tale.  43 


Act  V.     Scene  i. 

The  scene  now  shifts  to  Sicily,  and  we  begin  to  pity  old 
Leontes,  childless  and  wifeless,  penitent  and  desolate.  To 
be  sure,  his  penitence  has  a  certain  selfishness  in  it.  We 
hear  from  him  no  grieving  for  the  sorrows  of  Hermione. 
"The  wrong  I  did  myself"  is  the  burden  of  his  plaint; 
"my  sweet'st  companion"  is  the  thing  he  mourns  for. 

Again  we  see  Paulina's  want  of  tact,  her  habit  of  bearing 
hard  on  the  bruised  reed. 

Leontes.  Whilst  I  remember 

Her  and  her  virtues,  I  cannot  forget 
My  blemishes  in  them  ;  and  so  still  think  of 
The  wrong  I  did  myself,  which  was  so  much 
That  heirless  it  hath  made  my  kingdom,  and 
Destroyed  the  sweet'st  companion  that  e'er  man 
Bred  his  hopes  out  of. 

Paulina.  True,  too  true,  my  lord. 

If  one  by  one  you  wedded  all  the  world, 
Or  from  the  all  that  are  took  something  good 
To  make  a  perfect  woman  ;  she  you  killed 
Would  be  unparalleled. 

Leontes.  I  think  so.     Killed  .'' 

She  that  I  killed  ?    I  did  so,  but  thou  strik'st  me 
Sorely  to  say  I  did.     It  is  as  bitter 
Upon  thy  tongue  as  in  my  thought.     Now,  good  now, 
Say  so  but  seldom. 

Cleomenes.  Not  at  all,  good  lady. 

You  might  have  spoken  a  thousand  things  that  would 
Have  done  the  time  more  benefit,  and  graced 
Your  kindness  better. 

Many  of  Leontes'  courtiers  desire  he  should  wed  again, 
that  the  kingdom  may,  if  possible,  have  an  heir.  There  is 
good  in  the  man  at  bottom,  in  spite  of  all  his  faults,  for  the 
people  round  him  love  and  pity  him.     It  is  affecting  where 


44  The  Winter's  Tale, 

Paulina's  grief  breaks  out  in  little  yearnings  for  her  lost  hus- 
band. She  is  strongly  opposed,  of  course,  to  any  plans  for 
marrying  Leontes,  and  easily  induces  him  to  swear  that  he 
will  make  no  second  choice  till  she  provides  a  wife  for 
him. 

Then  news  comes  that  Prince  Florizel  of  Bohemia,  with 
his  Princess  have  landed  in  Sicily.  The  gentleman  who 
brings  the  news  describes  her  as  "  the  most  peerless  piece  of 
earth,  I  think,  that  e'er  the  sun  shone  bright  on."  Paulina 
at  once  reproves  him  for  seeming  to  forget  the  perfections  of 
Queen  Hermione.  The  gentleman  excuses  himself,  and 
Paulina,  whose  heart  is  ever  full  of  old  remembrances,  says  : 

Had  our  Prince, 
Jewel  of  children,  seen  this  hour,  he  had  paired 
Well  with  this  lord.     There  was  not  a  full  month 
Between  his  birth  and  that  of  Florizel. 

Leontes.     Prithee,  no  more.     Thou  knowest 
He  dies  to  me  again  when  talked  of.     Sure, 
When  I  shall  see  this  gentleman  thy  speeches 
Will  bring  me  to  consider  that  which  may 
Unfurnish  me  of  reason. 

Here  Florizel  and  Perdita  are  introduced.  Florizel  makes 
up  a  little  fiction  of  his  imaginary  adventures,  and  Leontes 
listens,  divided  between  feelings  of  remorse,  interest  in  the 
story,  the  desire  to  show  hospitality  to  Polixenes'  son,  and 
admiration  of  Perdita.  But  Perdita's  love  of  truth,  which 
mingles  with  her  picturesque  delicacy  a  certain  firmness  and 
dignity,  makes  her  unable  in  this  interview  to  utter  a  word. 
In  the  strait  in  which  they  are  placed  she  cannot  deny  the 
story  Florizel  relates ;  she  will  not  confirm  it.  Her  silence,  in 
spite  of  all  the  compliments  and  greetings  of  Leontes,  has  a 
peculiar  and  characteristic  grace,  and  at  the  conclusion  of 


The  Winter's  Tale,  45 

the  scene,  when  they  are  betrayed,  the  truth  bursts  from  her 
as  if  instinctively,  and  she  exclaims  with  emotion,  — 

The  heavens  set  spies  upon  us  !  —  will  not  have 
Our  nuptials  celebrated !        "* 

For  a  messenger  from  Polixenes  has  entered  to  denounce  the 
runaways.  That  monarch,  with  Camillo,  has  put  to  sea  in 
chase,  has  landed  in  Sicily,  and  fallen  in  with  the  two 
shepherds.  During  the  voyage  the  foster-father  and  brother 
of  Perdita  have  had  no  chance  to  communicate  with  Florizel, 
though  in  the  same  ship  with  him ;  indeed,  they  may  have 
thought  their  errand  was  only  to  the  King,  his  father.  Be- 
fore him  at  the  first  chance  they  open  their  "  fardel." 

Scene  2. 

Here  is  the  account,  that  a  gentleman,  deceived  by  Au- 
tolycus'  rich  clothes,  gave  to  him. 

1  Gent.  I  was  by  at  the  opening  of  the  fardel,  heard  the  old  shep- 
herd deliver  how  he  found  it,  whereupon,  after  a  little  amazedness,  we 
were  all  commanded  out  of  the  chamber ;  only  this,  methought  I  heard  the 
shepherd  say  he  found  the  child.  .  .  .  But  the  changes  I  perceived  in 
the  King  (Polixenes)  and  Camillo  were  very  notes  of  admiration ;  they 
seemed  almost  with  staring  at  each  other  to  tear  the  cases  of  their 
eyes.  There  was  speech  in  their  dumbness,  language  in  their  very 
gesture.  .  .  . 

2  Gent,  [entering].  Nothing  but  bonfires!  The  oracle  is  fulfilled. 
The  King's  daughter  is  found.  Such  a  deal  of  wonder  is  broken  out 
within  this  hour  that  ballad-makers  cannot  be  able  to  express  it. 

3  Gent.  Did  you  see  the  meeting  of  the  two  Kings  ? 

2  Gent.  No. 

3  Gent.  Then  you  have  lost  a  sight  which  was  to  be  seen  —  cannot 
be  spoken  of.  There  might  you  have  beheld  one  joy  crown  another ; 
so  and  in  such  manner  that  their  joy  waded  in  tears.  Our  King  being 
ready  to  leap  out  of  himself  for  joy  of  his  found  daughter,  as  if  that 
joy  were  now  become  a  loss,  cries  "  O,  thy  mother,  thy  mother  1 "  then 


46  The   Winter's  Tale, 

asks  Bohemia  forgiveness,  then  embraces  his  son-in-law,  then  again 
worries  he  his  daughter  with  caressing  her,  now  he  thanks  the  old 
shepherd,  which  stands  by  like  a  weather-beaten  conduit  of  many 
kings'  reigns.  .  .  .  Then,  O  !  the  noble  combat  that  'twixt  joy  and 
sorrow  was  wrought  in  Paulina  !  She  had  one  eye  cast  down  for 
the  loss  of  her  husband,  the  other  elevated  that  the  oracle  was  fulfilled. 
She  lifted  up  the  Princess  from  the  earth,  and  so  locks  her  in  embrac- 
ing as  if  she  would  pin  her  to  her  heart,  that  she  might  be  no  more  in 
danger  of  losing.  But  one  of  the  prettiest  touches  of  all  was  when  at 
the  relation  of  the  Queen's  death,  with  the  manner  how  she  came  to  it, 
bravely  confessed  and  lamented  by  the  King,  how  attentiveness 
wounded  his  daughter,  till  from  one  sign  of  dolor  to  another,  she  did 
with  an  "  alas ! "  I  would  fain  say,  bleed  tears,  for  I  am  sure  my  heart 
wept  blood. 

This  scene  is  followed  by  a  soliloquy  in  which  Autolycus 
laments  that  he  had  not  discovered  the  secret  and  revealed 
it  to  the  Kings  of  Sicily  and  Bohemia.  He  comforts  himself, 
however,  by  the  reflection  that  his  loss  of  character  would 
have  stood  in  the  way  of  his  court  preferment.  At  this 
moment  the  shepherd  and  his  son  come  in,  spoilt,  alas  ! 
(though  let  us  hope  only  for  a  time)  by  their  new  honors. 
The  scene  is  very  amusing,  and  yet  for  human  nature's  sake 
we  find  it  painful.  The  young  shepherd  boasts  that  he  has 
been  a  gentleman  born  these  four  hours,  —  that  he  was  a 
gentleman  born  before  his  father,  that  the  King's  son  took 
him  by  the  hand  and  called  him  brother,  then  the  two  Kings 
had  called  his  father  brother ;  then  the  Prince,  his  brother, 
and  the  Princess,  his  sister,  called  his  father,  father.  "  And 
so  we  wept,"  he  adds,  "  and  these  were  the  first  gentleman- 
like tears  we  ever  shed." 

Scene  3. 

We  like  Leontes  now  for  the  appreciation  he  shows  of 
Paulina.     The  statue  she  has  invited  him  and  all  his  court- to 


The  Winter's  Tale.  47 

see  is  a  painted  statue,  —  frequent  among  the  Greeks  and 
not  uncommon  in  the  Middle  Ages.  This  one,  she  says,  is  a 
masterpiece,  a  statue  of  Hermione  painted  by  Julio  Romano. 
You  will  notice  that  Hermione  and  Paulina,  being  such  dif- 
ferent women,  are  never  brought  together  till  this  scene. 
The  scene  is  in  Paulina's  house,  with  the  court  and  all  the 
dramatis  personce  assembled. 

Leontes.  O  grave  and  good  Paulina,  the  great  comfort 
That  I  have  had  of  thee  ! 

Paulina.  What,  sovereign  sir, 

I  did  not  well,  I  meant  well. 

Leontes.  O  Paulina,  we  came  to  see  the  statue 
Of  our  queen.     But  we  have  seen  not 
That  which  my  daughter  came  to  look  upon, 
The  statue  of  her  mother. 

Paulina.  But  here  it  is.     Prepare 

To  see  the  life  as  lively  mocked  as  ever 
Still  sleep  mocked  death.     Behold,  and  say  *t  is  well. 

Leontes.  Her  natural  posture  ! 

Chide  me,  dear  stone,  that  I  may  say  indeed 
Thou  art  Hermione.     Or  rather,  thou  art  she 
In  thy  not  chiding ;  for  she  was  as  tender 
As  infancy  and  grace.     But  yet,  Paulina, 
Hermione  was  not  so  much  wrinkled,  nothing 
So  aged  as  this  seems. 

Polixenes.  O,  not  by  much  ! 

Leontes,  .  .  .  O !  thus  she  stood  ,  .  .  when  first  I  wooed  her  ! 
I  am  ashamed.     Does  not  the  stone  rebuke  me 
For  being  more  stone  than  it .?    O  I  royal  piece. 
There  's  magic  in  thy  majesty,  which  has 
My  evils  conjured  to  remembrance  ;  and 
From  thine  admiring  daughter  ta'en  the  spirits. 
Standing  like  stone  before  thee  ! 

Perdita.  And  give  me  leave, 

And  do  not  say  't  is  superstition,  that 
I  kneel  and  then  implore  her  blessing.     Lady, 
Dear  Queen,  that  ended  when  I  but  began, 
Give  me  that  hand  of  vours  to  kiss. 


48  The  Winter's  Tale, 

Paulina.  O,  patience ! 

The  statue  is  but  newly  fixed,  the  color  's 
Not  yet  dry. 

Perdita  in  this  scene  says  very  little ;  but  she  stands,  as 
we  have  heard  her  father  say,  gazing  on  the  statue  of  her 
mother,  fixed  in  wonder,  admiration,  sorrow.  It  is  Hermione's 
consistent  self-restraint  that  enables  her  to  go  through  the 
statue  scene,  though  several  times  Paulina  is  on  the  point 
of  drawing  the  curtain  before  her,  —  dreading  her  emotion. 
Hermione  was  the  daughter  of  an  emperor  of  Russia.  In 
Elizabeth's  time  the  first  Enghsh  embassy  was  sent  to  the 
Russian  court,  where  Sir  Thomas  Randolph  was  entertained 
with  barbaric  splendors  by  Ivan  the  Terrible.  But  Her- 
mione has  none  of  the  characteristics  of  a  Russian  woman. 
Russian  women  are  sensuous  and  passionate  to  a  high 
degree. 

"  The  statue  scene  "  says  Mrs.  Jameson,  "  is  not  only  one 
of  the  most  picturesque  and  striking  instances  of  stage  effect 
to  be  found  in  the  ancient  or  modern  drama,  but  by  the  skil- 
ful manner  in  which  it  is  prepared  it  has  (wonderful  as  it 
appears)  all  the  merit  of  consistency  and  truth.  The  grief, 
the  love,  the  remorse,  the  impatience  of  Leontes,  are  finely 
contrasted  with  the  astonishtnent  and  admiration  of  Perdita, 
who,  gazing  on  the  statue  of  her  mother  as  one  entranced, 
looks  as  if  she  also  were  turned  to  marble.  There  is  one 
little  instance  of  tender  remembrance  in  Leontes  which  adds 
to  the  charming  impression  of  Hermione's  character  :  — 

Chide  me,  dear  stone,  that  I  may  say  indeed 
Thou  art  Hermione.     Or  rather,  thou  art  she 
In  thy  not  chiding ;  for  she  was  as  tender 
As  infancy  or  grace. 


The  Winter's   Tale,  49 

And  again :  — 

Thus  she  stood, 
E'en  with  such  life  of  majesty  —  warm  life, 
As  now  it  coldly  stands  —  when  first  I  wooed  her. 

The  effect  produced  on  the  different  persons  of  the  drama 
by  this  living  statue,  —  an  effect  which  at  the  same  moment  is 
and  is  not  illusion ;  the  manner  in  which  the  feelings  of  the 
spectators  become  entangled  between  the  conviction  of  death 
and  the  impression  of  life ;  the  idea  of  a  deception,  and  the 
feeling  of  a  reality ;  and  the  exquisite  coloring  of  poetry  and 
touches  of  natural  feeling  with  which  the  whole  is  wrought 
up,  till  wonder,  expectation,  and  intense  pleasure  hold 
our  pulse  and  breath  suspended  on  the  event,  —  are  quite 
inimitable." 

Then  comes  the  close.  Paulina,  who  is  speaking  when 
Hermione  descends  from  her  pedestal,  continues  her  speech. 
Hermione  had  held  her  hands  out.  Leontes,  in  his  awe, 
had  shrunk  from  her.     Paulina  says  to  him:  — 

Start  not:  her  actions  shall  be  holy  as. 

You  hear,  my  spell  is  lawful.     Do  not  shun  her, 

Until  you  see  her  die  again  ;  for  then 

You  kill  her  double.     Nay,  present  your  hand ; 

"When  she  was  young  you  wooed  her,  now  in  age 

Is  she  become  the  suitor. 

Leontes  {embracing  her\      0>  she's  warm  I 
If  this  be  magic,  let  it  be  an  art 
Lawful  as  eating. 

Polixenes.  She  embraces  him  ! 

Camillo.     She  hangs  about  his  neck  I 
If  she  pertain  to  life  let  her  speak  too. 

Paulina.  It  appears  she  lives, 

Although  she  speaks  not.     Mark  a  little  while  — 

\To  Perdita.\     Please  you  to  interpose,  fair  madam.     Kneel 
4 


50  The   Winter's  Tale. 

And  pray  your  mother's  blessing.    Turn,  good  lady  j 
Our  Perdita  is  found.  ^ 

Hermione.  You  gods,  look  down, 

And  from  your  sacred  vials  pour  your  graces 
Upon  my  daughter's  head  !     Tell  me,  mine  own, 
"Where  hast  thou  been  preserved  ?  —  where  lived  ?  —  how  found 
Thy  father's  court  ?     For  thou  shalt  hear  that  I  — 
Knowing  by  Paulina  that  the  oracle 
Gave  hope  thou  wast  in  being  —  have  preserved 
Myself  to  see  the  issue. 

Mrs.  Jameson  says:  "The  moment  when  Hermione  de- 
scends from  her  pedestal,  to  the  sound  of  soft  music,  and 
throws  herself  without  speaking  into  her  husband's  arms  is 
one  of  inexpressible  interest." 

"It  appears  to  me,"  she  adds,  "that  her  silence  during 
this  whole  scene  (except  where  she  invokes  a  blessing  on  her 
daughter's  head)  is  in  the  finest  taste  as  poetical  beauty,  be- 
sides being  an  admirable  trait  of  character.  The  misfortunes 
of  Hermione,  her  long  religious  seclusion,  the  wonderful  and 
almost  supernatural  part  she  has  just  enacted,  have  invested 
her  with  such  a  sacred  and  awful  charm  that  any  words  put 
into  her  mouth  must  I  think  have  injured  the  solemn  and 
profound  pathos  of  the  situation." 

Observe  that  after  she  descends  from  the  pedestal  Polix- 
enes  addresses  neither  her  nor  Leontes.  Before  she  stirs  he 
has  been  forward  to  comfort  her  husband.  As  they  turn 
away,  neither  she  nor  Polixenes  will  cast  a  glance  at  the 
other.     Leontes  observes  it,  and  exclaims  :  — 

What  ?    Look  upon  my  brother  :  both  your  pardons, 
That  e'er  I  put  between  your  holy  looks 
My  ill  suspicion. 

The  only  heavy  heart  is  poor  Paulina's.  She  had  evi- 
dently  cherished    the   hope    that    when    the   princess  was 


The  Winter's  Tale.  51 

restored  according  to  the  oracle,  her  husband  might  come 
back  to  her.     Now  she  says  :  — 

Go  together, 
You  precious  winners  all ;  your  exaltation 
Partake  with  every  one.     I,  an  old  turtle, 
Will  wing  me  to  some  withered  bough,  and  there 
My  mate,  that 's  never  to  be  found  again, 
Lament  till  I  am  lost. 

I  hardly  think  it  could  be  any  present  consolation  that 
royalty  provides  her  with  a  husband  in  Camillo;  but  let 
us  hope  she  was  the  happier  for  it  in  the  long  run. 


THE    TEMPEST. 


THE    TEMPEST. 

"  'T^HE  TEMPEST "  is  usually  placed  first  in  our  edi- 
X  tions  of  Shakspeare,  but  it  is  really  in  all  probability 
one  of  the  last  of  his  plays. 

The  first  representation  of  "  The  Tempest "  was  in  1 6 1 3.  It 
was  one  of  the  novelties  produced  during  the  rejoicings  over 
the  marriage  of  the  good  and  beautiful  Elizabeth,  the  eldest 
daughter  of  King  James,  with  Frederick,  the  Elector  Palatine. 
Among  the  various  absurd  comments  of  commentators  is  one 
which  finds  in  Prospero  King  James  himself,  in  Miranda 
Elizabeth,  in  Ferdinand  the  Elector  Palatine,  and  in  Caliban 
the  new  Province  of  Virginia  ! 

For  many  years  commentators  could  not  imagine  where 
Shakspeare  got  his  story  of  "  The  Tempest."  For  he  never 
invented  plots  ;  he  took  material  from  a  ballad,  from  history, 
or  from  some  old  story-book,  and  inspired  it.  His  charac- 
ters are  all  his  own,  his  plots  never.  At  last  an  old  Ger- 
man play  turned  up,  —  "  Die  Schone  Sidea ;  "  and  it  was  also 
discovered  that  in  161 2  some  of  Shakspeare's  friends  and 
fellow-actors  went  over  to  Germany  on  a  professional  visit, 
and  were  at  Nuremburg  when  the  *'  Schone  Sidea  "  was  per- 
formed. Germany  and  England  were  at  that  day  far  more 
in  sympathy  than  they  have  been  at  any  time  since  Elizabeth 
Stuart's  great-grandson  came  to  the  English  throne. 


56  The  Tempest, 


The  author  of  "  The  Fair  Sidea/'  Jacob  Ayrer,  died  in  1605, 
and  the  points  of  resemblance  are  close  between  the  two 
dramas.  Ludolph  is  Ayrer's  Prospero,  Sidea  his  Miranda; 
Ludolph  and  Sidea  live  apart  in  a  desert  place  (not  on  an  un- 
inhabited island),  and  are  served  by  two  spirits,  Runciter  and 
Molitor,  the  latter  of  whom  is  coarse  and  brutal,  like  Caliban. 
By  help  of  Runciter  (Ariel)  a  handsome  young  prince, 
Engelbrecht,  and  the  Sage's  hereditary  enemy,  are  delivered 
into  his  power.  The  story  proceeds  as  in  "  The  Tempest," 
even  to  the  carrying  of  the  wood  ;  but  all  the  glow  and  poetry 
and  grace  and  loveliness  are  Shakspeare's  own,  "  '  The  Tem- 
pest '  is  one  of  those  works  for  which  no  previous  produc- 
tion of  the  author  could  have  prepared  the  reader ;  it  is  of  a 
wholly  different  cast  of  temper  from  what  is  conspicuous  in 
his  gayer  comedies.  It  is  solemn  and  grand,  unrivalled  in 
harmony  and  grace,  and  in  grave  beauty."  The  other  fairy 
drama,  "  The  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,"  is  essentially 
different  from  "  The  Tempest,"  being  indeed  a  contrast  rather 
than  a  counterpart.  "  The  one,  is  all  joy  and  sparkle  and 
brilliancy ;  the  other  is  poetry  pervaded  by  philosophy."  The 
one  has  been  compared  to  spring,  the  other  to  the  Indian  sum- 
mer. "  The  Tempest,"  though  not  rising  as  high  as  some  of 
the  tragedies,  is  perhaps  Shakspeare's  most  perfect  work  of  art. 
Hazlitt  says  of  it :  "  The  human  and  imaginary  characters,  the 
dramatic  and  the  grotesque,  are  blended  together  with  the 
greatest  art.  As  the  preternatural  part  has  the  air  of  reality, 
and  haunts  the  imagination  with  a  sense  of  truth,  the  real 
characters  and  events  partake  of  the  wildness  of  a  dream." 

If  not,  as  it  probably  is,  Shakspeare's  latest  work,  it  is  at 
least  one  of  the  four  last,  —  the  others  being  "  The  Winter's 
Tale,"  "  Cymbeline,"  and  "  Coriolanus." 


The  Tempest,  57 


"i 


We  all  know  the  story  of  "  The  Tempest/'  —  how  Prosper©, 
Duke  of  Milan,  was  a  dreamer,  given  over  to  scientific 
studies,  which  included  (even  in  Shakspeare's  day)  alchemy 
and  astrology.  Antonio,  his  wicked  brother,  having  secured 
the  connivance  of  the  King  of  Naples  by  an  engagement  to 
submit  Milan  to  his  suzerainship,  making  it  a  fief  of  the 
Neapolitan  crown,  succeeded,  while  Prospero  remained  blind 
to  his  proceedings,  in  winning  the  hearts  of  the  Milanese 
people,  and  effecting  a  revolution.  Prospero  and  his  little 
daughter  were  put  afloat  in  a  leaky  boat  to  perish  in  the  first 
tempest  that  assailed  them ;  but  Gonzalo,  a  good  old  coun- 
cillor, supplied  them  with  books,  garments,  and  provisions. 
Father  and  child  landed  on  an  island,  —  probably  a  desert 
island  (if  we  must  place  it  geographically)  in  the  Mediter- 
ranean. The  description  of  the  island  is  taken  partly  from 
a  pamphlet  by  a  Virginian  adventurer,  who  lived  in  Black- 
friars,  near  Shakspeare's  theatre.  It  was  published  in  161 2, 
and  is  called  "  A  true  repertory  of  the  wracke  and  redemp- 
tion of  Sir  Thomas  Gates,  Knight,  upon  and  from  the 
Islands  of  the  Bermudas ;  his  comeing  to  Virginia,  and  the 
state  of  the  Colonic  there,  and  after,  under  the  Government 
of  the  Lord  de  la  Warre.  July  15.  16 10.  Written  by  Wil- 
liam Strachey  Esquire." 

In  the  island  they  found  two  spirits,  —  the  one  all  sloth, 
earthliness,  and  sensuality ;  the  other  all  that  was  airy,  grace- 
ful, tender;  one  with  the  power  to  hate,  the  other  with 
almost  the  power  to  love,  —  by  that  I  mean  as  high  a  power 
to  love  as  can  be  possessed  without  a  soul. 

Caliban  was  son  of  the^witch_^ycQmXr  who  worshipped  a 
god,  Setebos,  on  whom  a  poem  has  been  written  by  Mr. 
Browning. 


58  Th(    Tempest 


Ariel,  the  spirit  of  the  island  when  Sycorax  landed  upon 
it,  was  imprisoned  by  her  in  a  cleft  tree,  and  released  by 
Prospero. 

These  beings  wait  on  him  and  on  his  daughter.  At  first 
the  new  comers  were  disposed  to  be  kind  to  Caliban,  but  the 
devil  in  him  getting  the  upper  hand,  he  offered  violence  and 
insult  to  Miranda,  after  which  he  was  kept  down  in  his  place 
with  an  almost  cruel  hand.  This  made  him  ripe  for  revolu- 
tion. It  has  always  seemed  to  me  that  Caliban,  dangerous, 
vicious,  with  sufficient  suffering  to  excuse  himself  in  his  own 
eyes  for  his  desire  to  retaliate,  was  the  Mob  incarnate. 

At  last,  after  a  lapse  of  about  twelve  years,  a  ship  con- 
taining the  King  of  Naples,  on  his  way  from  Tunis,  where 
he  had  married  his  daughter  to  a  Moorish  prince,  is  driven 
by  stress  of  weather  near  the  enchanted  island.  Prospero, 
who  sees  the  laboring  vessel  has  on  board,  besides  the  King 
of  Naples  (now  Milan's  feudal  chief),  his  brother  Antonio, 
old  Gonzalo,  and  young  Prince  Ferdinand,  the  heir  of  Naples, 
directs  Ariel  to  raise  a  tempest,  to  make  the  ship  founder  off 
shore,  and  bring  her  passengers  safe  into  his  power.    Here  the 

play  opens. 

Act  I.     Scene  i. 

You  are  aware  that  in  Shakspeare's  time  there  was  no  stage 
scenery.  So,  on  a  board,  when  the  tempest  was  represented, 
was  chalked  up  :  "  On  a  Ship  at  sea.  A  storm,  with  thunder 
and  light?iingy  The  captain,  the  boatswain,  and  the  sailors, 
come  tumbling  up  on  deck.  All  is  hurry  and  confusion.  To 
their  amazement,  they  find  themselves  among  breakers.  The 
honest  boatswain  whistles  shrilly  with  his  silver  whistle,  and 
gives  a  multitude  of  orders,  striving  to  keep  up  the  hearts  of  his 
men,  when  up  the  companion-way  comes,  what  a  sailor  dreads 


The  Tempest.  59 


most  in  foul  weather,  a  meddlesome  crowd  of  passengers. 
The  King  of  Naples  and  his  courtiers  address  the  boatswain, 
forgetting  that  on  board-ship  in  a  storm  ranks  are  reversed ; 
the  real  king  at  such  moments  is  he  who  commands  the  ship- 
men.  The  boatswain  very  shortly  orders  them  all  below.  In  a 
storm  he  respects  no  man.  His  rough  absorption  in  his  duty, 
and  the  vain  efforts  of  the  courtiers  to  make  him  show  some 
respect  to  the  King  he  has  on  board,  are  marvellously  true  to 
nature.  My  sympathy  is  all  for  the  boatswain,  though  even  the 
good  Gonzalo  cannot  take  a  sailor's  view  of  the  subject,  and 
thinks  he  deserves  hanging ;  indeed,  he  makes  a  little  joke  on 
the  subject,  to  keep  up  the  spirits  of  his  companions.  But  as 
the  storm  grows  worse,  and  more  courtiers  come  on  deck, 
increasing  the  confusion  and  bothering  the  sailors,  the  boat- 
swain gets  more  and  more  exasperated,  and  Sebastian  and 
Antonio,  the  bad  men  of  the  drama,  grow  coarsely  abu- 
sive. It  is  the  sailors,  not  tlje  landsmen,  who  first  cry  to 
prayers.  Gonzalo  keeps  on  reiterating  his  little  joke  about 
the  boatswain  being  born  to  be  hanged,  to  call  off  the  atten- 
tion of  the  courtiers.  It  has  been  his  office  for  so  many 
years  to  be  a  go-between  and  peace-maker,  that  even  in  the 
presence  of  death  the  passion  for  directing  away  the  inten- 
tions of  the  wicked  from  evil  is  strong  within  him. 

The  subsequent  exclamations,  after  the  direction  "  a  con- 
fused noise  within^''  are,  I  think,  the  cries  of  other  passengers 
in   the   cabin,  and  no  part  of  the  speech  spoken  by  old 

Gonzalo. 

Scene  2. 

In  this  scene,  before  the  cave  that  serves  Prospero  for  his 
study,  we  are  introduced  to  Miranda.  Miranda's  character 
is  composed  of  the  simplest  elements  of  ideal  womanhood ; 


6o  The  Tempest, 


she  is  beautiful,  modest,  and  tender.  These  elements  com- 
prise her  whole  character,  —  she  is  these  alone.  Brought  up 
with  no  mother,  with  no  knowledge  of  persons  of  her  own 
sex,  she  knows  nothing  of  the  conventional  rules  of  society ; 
she  is  the  brightest  possible  ideal  of  a  child  of  nature,  —  not 
rude,  ignorant  nature,  but  nature  with  some  intellectual  culti- 
vation. She  knows  nothing  that  should  prevent  her  carrying 
wood  for  a  human  being  who  is  weary  ;  she  has  no  conven  ■ 
tionalities  of  princesshood,  nor  traditions  of  a  lady ;  she  is 
"pure  womanly,"  but  has  native  dignity,  and  an  intuitive 
sense  of  all  that  is  most  proper,  while  guided  chiefly  by  her 
sense  of  what  is  kind. 

"  Miranda,"  says  Mrs.  Jameson,  "  possesses  the  merely 
elementary  attributes  of  womanhood,  but  each  of  these 
stands  out  in  her  with  a  distinct  grace.  She  resembles 
nothing  upon  earth,  and  yet  we  never  compare  her  with 
dryads  or  sea-maids,  or  such  creatures  of  the  fancy. 
Miranda  is  a  consistent,  natural  human  being.  Our  im- 
pression of  her  nymph -like  beauty,  her  peerless  grace,  and 
purity  of  soul,  has  a  distinct  and  individual  character. 
Not  only  is  she  exquisitely  lovely,  being  what  she  is,  but 
we  are  made  to  feel  she  coidd  not  possibly  be  otherwise 
than  as  she  is  portrayed.  She  has  never  beheld  one  of  her 
own  sex,"  —  although  one  of  her  first  speeches  is  in 
defence  of  that  sex,  which  she  knew  only  through  history 
or  poetry ;  but  Coleridge  says,  in  effect,  that  a  sense  of  an- 
cestry and  maternity  are  strong  instincts  in  untutored 
womanhood.  "She  has  never  caught  from  society  ^ne 
imitated  or  one  artificial  grace.  The  impulses  which  have 
come  to  her  enchanted  solitude  are  of  heaven  and  nature, 
not  of  the  world  and  its  vanities.     She  has  sprung  up  into 


The  Tempest,  6i 


beauty  beneath  the  eye  of  her  father,  the  princely  magician. 
Her  companions  have  been  the  rocks  and  woods,  the  many- 
tinted  clouds,  the  silent  stars;  Ariel  and  his  attendant 
spirits  hovered  over  her,  ministering  duteous  to  her  every 
wish,  and  presented  before  her  pageants  of  beauty  and 
grandeur.  The  very  air,  made  vocal  by  her  father's  art, 
floated  in  music  round  her.  She  retains  her  woman's  heart, 
for  that  is  unalterable,  inalienable,  as  part  of  her  being ;  but 
her  deportment,  her  looks,  her  language,  her  thoughts, — 
these,  from  the  supernatural  and  poetical  circumstances 
around  her,  assume  a  cast  of  the  pure  ideal.  All  who 
approach  her  seem  to  see  in  her  something  celestial." 
In  this  scene  in  which  she  comes  before  us  first  we  see 
her  anxiety,  sorrow,  and  uneasiness,  the  first  time  that  she 
is  brought  face  to  face  with  others'  suffering,  —  "suffering 
with  those  whom  she  saw  suffer."  When  her  father  goes 
on  to  tell  her  of  her  own  lost  inheritance,  the  secret  of 
her  fife,  of  their  exile,  of  all  that  we  should  suppose  would 
have  been  most  interesting  to  her,  he  can  hardly  keep  her 
attention,  so  anxiously  is  she  watching  for  some  confirma- 
tion of  his  assurance  that  the  poor  souls  that  she  has  seen 
sink  in  the  beautiful  great  ship  are  safe  on  land.  Only 
once  is  her  soul  moved  during  his  tale,  —  when  she  thinks 
what  trouble  she  must  have  been  in  her  infant  helplessness  to 
her  poor  father.  She  does  not  sit  down  quietly  to  hear  his 
tale  till  he  commands  her,  and  at  every  pause  he  has  to  ask 
if  she  is  really  listening.  Coleridge  remarks  that  Prospero's 
speeches  in  this  scene  are  the  finest  examples  he  remembers 
of  "  retrospective  narrative,  told  for  the  purpose  of  exciting 
immediate  interest  and  putting  the  audience  in  possession  of 
all  the  information  necessary  for  understanding  the  plot." 


62  The  Tempest, 

Miranda.     If  by  your  art,  my  dearest  father,  you  have 
Put  the  wild  waters  in  this  roar,  allay  them. 
The  sky,  it  seems,  would  pour  down  stinking  pitch, 
But  that  the  sea,  mounting  to  the  welkin's  cheek, 
Dashes  the  fire  out.     O  !  I  have  suffered 
With  those  that  I  saw  suffer,  —  a  brave  vessel. 
Who  had  no  doubt  some  noble  creatures  in  her. 
Dashed  all  to  pieces  !     O  !  their  cry  did  knock 
Against  my  very  heart.     Poor  souls !  they  perished. 
Had  I  been  any  god  of  power,  I  would 
Have  sunk  the  sea  within  the  earth  or  e'er 
It  should  the  good  ship  so  have  swallowed,  and 
The  freighting  souls  within  her. 

Prospero.  Be  collected. 

No  more  amazement.     Tell  your  piteous  heart 
There  's  no  harm  done 

Miranda.  O  !  woe  the  day. 

Prospero.  No  harm. 

Then  he  goes  on,  often  pausing  to  comfort  her  and  re- 
assure her,  to  tell  her  their  sad  history.  Before  he  does 
so  he  takes  off  his  magic  garment,  and  speaks  only  in  the 
character  of  an  exiled  prince  and  father. 

After  questioning  his  daughter  concerning  the  earliest 
recollections  of  her  infancy,  he  proceeds :  — 

Twelve  years  since, 
Miranda,  twelve  years  since,  thy  father  was 
The  Duke  of  Milan,  —  thou,  his  only  heir, 
A  princess ;  no  worse  issued. 

Miranda.  O,  the  heavens  ! 

What  foul  play  had  we,  that  we  came  from  thence  ?  — 
Or  blest  was  it  we  did .? 

Prospero.  Both,  both,  my  girl. 

By  foul  play,  as  thou  say'st,  were  we  heaved  thence, 
But  blessedly  holp  hither. 

Miranda.  O  !  my  heart  bleeds 

To  think  of  the  teen  that  I  have  turned  you  to, 
Which  is  from  my  remembrance. 


The  Tempest.  63 


Prospero  proceeds  with  his  narrative,  but  ever  and  anon 
her  attention  is  distracted  by  distant  sounds.  She  fancies 
that  she  hears  the  cries  of  the  poor  creatures  she  had  seen 
engulfed,  or  something  that  confirms  her  father's  assurance 
of  their  safety. 

When  he  tells  her,  however,  how  in  the  dead  of  darkness 
the  ministers  of  Antonio  hurried  to  the  strand  "  me  and  thy 
crying  self,"  her  attention  is  fully  roused,  and  she  exclaims : 

Alack,  for  pity ! 
I,  not  remembering  how  I  cried  out  then, 
Will  cry  it  o'er  again. 

When  he  tells  her  of  the  pity  and  kind  thoughtfulness  of 
good  Gonzalo  she  exclaims  :  — 

Would  I  might 
But  ever  see  that  man  I 

"Alack  !  what  trouble  was  I  then  to  you  !  "  is  her  thought 
throughout,  and  Prospero's  answer  is  :  "  O  !  a  cherubim, 
that  did  preserve  me  ! " 

And  then  at  last  he  gives  his  reasons  "for  raising  this 
sea-storm." 

Prospero.  Know  thus  far  forth : 

By  accident  most  strange,  bountiful  Fortune, 
Now  my  dear  lady,  hath  mine  enemies 
Brought  to  this  shore  ;  and  by  my  prescience 
I  find  my  zenith  doth  depend  upon 
A  most  conspicuous  star ;  whose  influence 
If  now  I  court  not  but  omit,  my  fortune 
Will  ever  after  droop.     Here  cease  thy  questions. 

And  thus  having  told  Miranda  all  that  he  thinks  fit,  he 
lays  a  sleep-spell  on  her,  and  summons  Ariel.  For  the  pas- 
sage in  which  Ariel  describes  the  shipwreck  Shakspeare  is 


64  The  Tempest. 


supposed  to  have  received  some  hints  from  Ariosto  in  Ruggi- 
ero's  shipwreck,  and  some  from  Strachey's  "  Narrative,"  which 
has  much  to  say  about  the  St.  Hermus  light,  the  death- 
fears  of  the  sailors  off  Bermuda,  etc.  I  am  very  sure  Shaks- 
peare  had  read  Ariosto,  either  in  the  original  or  in  the 
translation  made  by  Sir  John  Harrington  at  the  command 
of  Queen  Elizabeth. 

Ariel  also  makes  allusion  to  Bermuda  as  a  little  group  of 
enchanted  isles.     He  says  :  — 

Thou  calledst  me  up  at  midnight  to  fetch  dew 
From  the  still  vexed  Bermoothes. 

Ariel  has  fulfilled  his  lord's  commands  by  dispersing  sailors 
and  passengers  about  the  island.  Prospero  seems  in  this 
scene  a  little  stern  with  his  sweet  airy  spirit,  but  I  suppose 
with  soulless  beings  it  was  necessary  to  keep  them  well  in 
subjection.  "  Ariel,"  says  Coleridge,  "  has  in  everything  the 
airy  tint  that  gives  his  name.  Miranda  is  never  brought 
into  comparison  with  Ariel,  lest  the  natural  and  human  of 
the  one,  and  the  supernatural  of  the  other,  should  tend  to 
neutralize  each  other.  Caliban,  on  the  other  hand,  is  all 
earth  and  condensed  *  brulishhess.'"  ^  He  has  the  dawnings 
of  understanding  without  moral  sense,  and  in  him,  as  in  some 
brute  animals  (or  more  notably  in  savages),  this  advance  to 
intellectual  faculties  without  moral  sense  is  marked  by  the 
appearance  of  vice."  Caliban  has  a  case  which  he  can  make 
out  against  Prospero,  and  yet  we  feel,  and  know,  that  Prospero 
is  in  the  right,  and  that  nothing  but  threats  and  brute  force 
will  keep  him  or  his  daughter,  in  their  intercourse  with 
Caliban,  in  safety.  Still,  a  philanthropist  might  have  taken  up 
the  cause  of  the  "  poor  monster.^' 


The  Tempest.  65 


Caliban  being  gone  to  carry  wood,  Ariel  re-enters,  singing, 
and  drawing  after  him  Prince  Ferdinand.  The  song  is  one 
of  the  loveliest  of  Shakspeare's  lyrics.  Whenever  he  writes  a 
song  there  is  music  in  the  words. 

Come  unto  these  yellow  sands, 

And  there  take  hands. 
Courtesied  when  you  have,  and  kissed 

(The  wild  waves  whist), 
Foot  it  featly  here  and  there, 
And,  sweet  sprites,  the  burthen  bear. 
Hark!  Hark! 
[Bur.]     Bow-wow. 
The  watch  dogs  bark  ; 
[Bur.]     Bow-wow. 
Hark,  hark!  I  hear 
The  strain  of  strutting  chanticleer, 
Cry,  Cock-a-doodle-doo ! 

Ferdinand.    Where  should  this  music  be  ?    I'  the  air  — 
Or  on  the  earth  t    It  sounds  no  more,  and  sure 
It  waits  upon  some  god  o'  the  island. 

Sitting  on  a  bank, 
Weeping  again  the  king  my  father's  wreck, 
This  music  crept  by  me  upon  the  waters,  — 
Allaying  both  their  fury  and  my  passion 
With  its  sweet  air.     Thence  I  have  followed  it. 
Or  it  hath  drawn  me,  rather.  .  .  .  But 't  is  gone. 
No  !  it  begins  again. 

Ariel.     Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies  ; 
Of  his  bones  are  coral  made ; 
Those  are  pearls  that  were  his  eyes ; 

Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade, 
But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change 
Into  something  rich  and  strange  ; 
Sea-nymphs  hourly  ring  his  knell ; 
Hark !  now  I  hear  them  —  ding-dong  bell ! 

Ferdinand.     The  ditty  does  remember  my  drowned  father ; 
This  is  no  mortal  business,  nor  no  sound 
That  the  earth  owns.    I  hear  it  now  above  me. 

S 


66  The   Tempest. 


Thus  impressed  by  the  idea  that  he  may  be  surrounded 
by  the  local  divinities  of  the  island,  Ferdinand  stands  without 
the  cave,  while  within  Prospero  wakes  Miranda,  and  notes 
the  effect  of  the  first  man  she  sees  upon  her.  Then  sud- 
denly Ferdinand  catches  sight  of  Miranda,  and  doubting 
whether  she  be  woman  or  spirit  or  goddess,  kneels  and 
addresses  her  as  "  O  you  wonder  !  "  — asking  if  she  "  be  maid 
or  no."  Miranda  replies,  "  No  wonder,  sir,  but  certainly  a 
maid."  Hearing  her  speak  his  own  tongue,  Ferdinand  has- 
tens to  intimate  his  rank.  His  genuine  grief  for  his  father, 
and  regret  at  his  own  elevation  to  the  throne,  are  in  marked 
contrast  with  the  subsequently  expressed  feelings  of  Sebastian 
and  Antonio  on  the  same  subject,  and  predispose  us  at  once 
in  favor  of  the  young  man.  The  whole  scene  is  very  beauti- 
ful, too  beautiful  to  be  omitted. 

Prospero  [within  the  cave,  to  Mi7'anda\.     The  fringed  curtains  of 
thine  eyes  advance, 
And  say  what  seest  thou  yonder  ? 

Miranda.  What  is  't  ?  —  a  spirit  "i 

Lord !  how  it  looks  about !    Believe  me,  sir, 
It  carries  a  brave  form.     But  is 't  a  spirit  ? 

Prospero.     No,  girl ;  it  eats  and  sleeps,  and  hath  such  senses 
As  we  have  —  such.    This  gallant  whom  thou  seest 
Was  in  the  wreck  ;  and,  but  he  's  something  stained 
With  grief  that 's  beauty's  canker,  thou  might'st  call  him 
A  goodly  person.     He  hath  lost  his  fellows, 
And  strays  about  to  find  them. 

Miranda.  I  might  call  him 

A  thing  divine  ;  for  nothing  natural 
I  ever  saw  so  noble. 

Prospero  [aside,  as  he  goes  apart].     It  goes  on 
As  my  soul  prompts  it.     Spirit,  fine  spirit, 
I  'H  free  thee  within  two  days  for  this. 

Ferdinand  [seeing  Miranda].  Most  sure,  the  goddess 

On  whom  these  airs  attend  !     [Kneels.]     Vouchsafe  my  prayer 
May  know  if  you  remain  upon  this  island  ; 


The  Tempest.  67 


And  that  you  will  some  good  instruction  give 
How  I  may  bear  me  here.     My  prime  request, 
Which  I  do  last  pronounce,  is,  O  you  wonder  1 
If  you  be  maid  or  no  ? 

Miranda.  No  wonder,  sir ; 

But  certainly  a  maid. 

Ferdinand  [rising].     My  language?  Heavens!  — 
I  am  the  best  of  them  that  speak  this  speech. 
Were  I  but  where  't  is  spoken. 

Prospero  \conting forward].     How  !  —  the  best  ? 
What  wert  thou  if  the  King  of  Naples  heard  thee  ? 

Ferdinand.     A  single  thing,  as  I  am  now,  that  wonders 
To  hear  thee  speak  of  Naples.     He  does  hear  me, 
And,  that  he  does,  I  weep.     Myself  am  Naples, 
Who  with  mine  eyes,  ne'er  since  at  ebb,  beheld 
The  king  my  father  wrecked. 

Miranda.  Alack,  for  mercy  ! 

Ferdinand.     Yes,  faith,  and  all  his  lords,  —  the  Duke  of  Milan 
And  his  brave  son  being  twain. 

Prospero.  The  Duke  of  Milan 

And  his  more  braver  daughter  could  control  thee 
If  now  't  were  fit  to  do  it. 

[Aside.]  At  the  first  sight 

They  have  changed  eyes.     Delicate  Ariel, 
I  '11  set  thee  free  for  this. 

[Aloud  to  Ferdinand.]     A  word,  good  sir ; 
I  fear  you  have  done  yourself  some  wrong  ;  a  word. 

Miranda.     Why  speaks  my  father  so  ungently  ?    This 
Is  the  third  man  that  e'er  I  saw;  —  the  first 
That  e'er  I  sighed  for.     Pity  move  my  father 
To  be  inclined  my  way  ! 

Ferdinand.  O  !  if  a  virgin, 

And  your  affection  not  gone  forth,  I  '11  make  you 
The  Queen  of  Naples  ! 

Prospero.  Soft,  sir  ;  one  word  more. 

[Aside.]  They  are  both  in  cither's  powers  ;  but  this  swift  business 
I  must  uneasy  make,  lest  too  light  winning 
Make  the  prize  light. 

[To  Ferdinand.]     One  word  more  ;  I  charge  thee 
That  thou  attend  me.     Thou  dost  here  usurp 


68  The  Tempest. 


The  name  thou  own'st  not ;  and  hast  put  thyself 
Upon  this  island  as  a  spy,  to  win  it 
From  me,  the  lord  on't. 

Ferdinand.  No  !  as  I  am  a  man. 

Miranda  [pleading].  There  's  nothing  ill  can  dwell  in  such  a  temple. 
If  the  ill  spirit  have  so  fair  a  house, 
Good  things  will  strive  to  dwell  in  't. 

Prospero  \to  Ferdinatid].  Follow  me !  — 

{To  Miranda.']     Speak  not  you  for  him  ;  he 's  a  traitor. 

[To  Ferdinand.]     I  '11  manacle  thy  neck  and  feet  together  ; 
Sea-water  shalt  thou  drink  ;  thy  food  shall  be 
The  fresh-brook  muscles,  withered  roots,  and  husks 
Wherein  the  acorn  cradled.    Follow  ! 

Ferdinand.  No ! 

I  will  resist  such  entertainment,  till 
Mine  enemy  has  more  power.  [Draws  his  s7uord.] 

Miranda.  O  !  dear  father, 

Make  not  too  rash  a  trial  of  him,  for 
He  's  gentle,  and  not  fearful. 

Prospero.  What,  I  say,  — 

My  foot  my  tutor  ! 

[Paralyzes  his  arm.]     Put  thy  sword  up,  traitor, 
Who  mak'st  a  show,  but  dar'st  not  strike,  thy  conscience 
Is  so  possessed  by  guilt.     Come  from  thy  ward  ; 
For  I  can  here  disarm  thee  with  this  stick, 
And  make  thy  weapon  drop. 

Miranda.  Beseech  you,  father  ! 

Prospero.     Hence  !  hang  not  on  my  garments  ! 

Miranda.  Sir,  have  pity. 

I  '11  be  his  surety  ! 

Prospero.  Silence  !  one  word  more 

Shall  make  me  chide  thee,  if  not  hate  thee.     What ! 
An  advocate  for  an  impostor  ?     Hush  ! 
Thou  think'st  there  are  no  more  such  shapes  as  he,  — 
Having  seen  but  him  and  Caliban.     Foolish  wench ! 
To  most  of  men  this  is  a  Caliban, 
And  they  to  him  are  angels. 

Miranda.  My  affections 

Are  then  most  humble.     I  have  no  ambition 
To  see  a  goodlier  man. 


The   Tempest,  69 


Prospero  \to  Ferdinand\.     Come  on  ;  obey. 
Thy  nerves  are  in  their  infancy  again, 
And  have  no  vigor  in  them. 

Ferdinand.  So  they  are. 

My  spirits,  as  in  a  dream,  are  all  bound  up. 
My  father's  loss,  the  weakness  which  I  feel. 
The  wreck  of  all  my  friends,  or  this  man's  threats 
By  which  I  am  subdued,  are  but  light  to  me 
Might  I  but  through  my  prison  once  a  day 
Behold  this  maid.     All  corners  else  o'  the  earth 
Let  liberty  make  use  of;  space  enough 
Have  I  in  such  a  prison. 

Prospero  \aside\.        It  works.     [To  Ferdinand. 1     Come  on. 

[Aside  to  Ariel.]  Thou  hast  done  well,  my  Ariel. 

[  To  Ferd.  and  Mir.]  Follow  me  ! 

[Aside  to  Ariel.]  Hark,  what  thou  else  shalt  do  me. 

Miranda  [to  Ferdinand],  Be  of  comfort, 

My  father  *s  of  a  better  nature,  sir. 
Than  he  appears  by  speech.     This  is  unwonted 
Which  now  came  from  him. 

Prospero  [to  Ariel].  Thou  shalt  be  as  free 

As  mountain  winds  ;  but  then  exactly  do 
All  points  of  my  command. 

Ariel.  To  the  syllable. 

Prospero  [to  Mir.].     Come,  follow  !  speak  not  for  him. 

Prospero  has  spoken  roughly  to  the  youth,  and  the  pity 
akin  to  love  is  roused  in  sv^^eet  Miranda.  Prospero,  reflect- 
ing truly  that  there  is  danger  in  light  winning,  has  made 
believe  to  abuse  and  insult  Ferdinand,  who  draws  his  sword ; 
but  Prospero,  lifting  up  his  wand,  paralyzes  his  arm,  — 
Miranda,  meantime,  hanging  on  the  skirts  of  her  father's 
magic  robe,  and  entreating  him  for  pity.  Prospero  silences 
her  peremptorily ;  but,  even  then,  her  dawning  love  for  Fer- 
dinand, combining  with  her  sense  of  justice  and  her  pity, 
make  her  hold  firmly  to  her  point,  though  all  she  can  do  is 
to  whisper  to  Ferdinand  that  her  father  is  of  better  nature 


70  The  Tempest, 


than  he  appears  by  speech,  and  that  his  conduct  is  "un- 
wonted." 

Act  II.     Scene  i. 

Here  we  are  introduced  to  a  new  set  of  characters, — 
Alonzo,  King  of  Naples;  Sebastian,  his  wicked  brother; 
Antonio,  the  coarse,  bad  brother  of  Prospero ;  good  old 
Gonzalo  ;  Francisco,  a  young  nobleman,  —  possibly  the  brave 
young  cousin  of  Miranda,  —  and  Adrian. 

Gonzalo,  ever  bent  upon  his  task  of  turning  other  people's 
thoughts  away  from  their  own  troubles,  or  from  designs  of  in- 
iquity, implores  his  master  to  look  on  the  bright  side,  and  to  be 
thankful  for  his  preservation.  The  bereaved  man  —  for 
the  father  of  Ferdinand  believes  his  son  is  drowned  —  will 
not  listen  to  his  kind  old  councillor,  of  whom  the  heartless 
courtiers  make  fun.  Indeed,  Sebastian  and  Antonio  are  in 
high  spirits;  for  if  Ferdinand  be  dead,  Sebastian  may  be 
considered  the  next  heir  to  Naples.  Then  Adrian  tries,  as 
it  were,  to  second  old  Gonzalo,  not  very  wisely  perhaps, 
(few  consolatory  speeches  are  wise),  and  Sebastian  and  An- 
tonio find  more  matter  for  mirth.  The  comforters'  speeches, 
however,  are  rather  made  with  the  kind  intention  of  diverting 
their  master's  thoughts,  and  drawing  his  attention  to  the 
beauties  of  the  enchanted  island,  than  to  offer  balm  to  his 
wound.  The  whole  scene  is  more  pathetic  than  comic  ;  the 
efforts  of  Gonzalo,  Adrian,  and  Francisco,  are  so  piteously 
persevering  and  unavailing. 

Then  breaks  in  Sebastian,  with  a  brutal  "  I  told  you  so  ! " 
to  his  brother,  and  makes  the  worst  of  the  bad  business,  — 
as  Gonzalo  tells  him,  "rubbing  the  sore  where  you  should 
bring  the  plaster."  Here,  by  way  of  diverting  his  master's 
thoughts,  Gonzalo  applies  to  the  imaginary  government  of 


The  Tempest.  71 


the  desert  isle  a  passage  translated  from  Montaigne's  Essays. 
Notice,  too,  how  amiably  Gonzalo  takes  the  failure  of  his 
efforts,  —  with  the  unselfishness  of  a  man  bent  wholly  on  a 
charitable  purpose. 

It  is  always  interesting  to  me  to  look  closely  into  what 
one  may  call  the  minor  scenes  of  Shakspeare's  plays,  and  see 
how  carefully  he  discriminates  his  less  important  characters. 

The  joking,  gibing,  and  consoling  are  interrupted  by  Ariel 
and  his  spirits  playing  solemn  music,  which  puts  to  sleep 
Gonzalo,  Adrian,  and  Francisco,  leaving  the  two  bad  men 
alone  with  their  King.  Soon  he  becomes  drowsy,  and  they 
remain  awake  to  plot  against  his  life.  "The  scene  of  the 
intended  assassination  of  Alonzo,"  says  Coleridge,  "is  the 
exact  counterpart  of  the  scene  between  Macbeth  and  his 
lady,  only  pitched  in  a  lower  key  throughout,  as  designed  to 
be  frustrated  and  concealed,  and  exhibiting  the  same  pro- 
found management  in  the  manner  of  familiarizing  a  mind 
not  immediately  recipient,  to  the  suggestion  of  guilt,  by  asso- 
ciating the  proposed  crime  with  something  ludicrous,  or  out 
of  place,  —  something  not  habitually  matter  of  reverence. 
By  this  kind  of  sophistry  the  imagination  and  fancy  are  first 
bribed  to  contemplate  the  suggested  act,  and  at  length  to 
become  acquainted  with  it." 

The  two  men  Sebastian  and  Antonio  are  about  to  kill  the 
King  of  Naples  and  Gonzalo,  when  Ariel,  sent  by  Prospero, 
wakens  the  latter,  who  perceives  the  conspirators  with  drawn 
swords  in  their  hands.  They  make  plausible  excuses,  and 
Gonzalo,  too  good  himself  to  cherish  suspicion,  is  persuaded 
that  strange  noises  have  been  heard  in  the  enchanted  island. 
Therefore,  refreshed  by  sleep,  and  with  their  swords  drawn, 
they  all  set  out  to  make  further  search  for  Ferdinand. 


72  The  Tempest. 


Scene  2. 

In  this  second  scene  we  have  Caliban,  bearing  logs  of 
wood,  ripe  for  rebellion  against  his  master.  As  he  grumbles, 
there  enters  Trinculo,  the  jester  of  the  King  of  Naples. 
Hazlitt  has  remarked  upon  the  entire  absence  of  vulgarity 
in  Caliban,  in  contrast  with  the  sea-wit  of  the  jester,  butler, 
and  sailors.  He  says  :  "  Shakspeare  has  described  the  brutal 
mind  of  Caliban  in  contrast  with  the  pure  and  original  forms 
of  nature ;  the  character  grows  out  of  the  soil  where  it  is 
rooted,  uncontrolled,  uncouth,  and  wild,  uncramped  by  any 
of  the  meannesses  of  custom ;  it  is  *  of  the  earth,  earthy.' 
It  seems  almost  to  have  been  dug  out  of  the  ground,  with 
mental  powers  instinctively  superadded  to  it,  answering  to 
its  wants  and  origin."  Schlegel  observes  that  Caliban  is  a 
poetical  character,  and  always  speaks  in  blank  verse. 

The  part  of  Trinculo 's  speech  which  describes  the  English 
as  eager  to  rush  after  any  kind  of  monstrosity  is  still  true  to 
the  letter.  Soon  after,  enters  Stephano,  a  drunken  steward 
or  butler,  with  a  bottle  in  his  hand.  The  whole  scene 
speaks  for  itself.  Note  in  it  one  touch  which  shows  Mi- 
randa's kindness  to  her  father's  brutish  servant,  and  another 
which  proves  that  the  jester  was  somewhat  dwarfish. 

Caliban.     All  the  infections  that  the  sun  sucks  up 
From  bogs,  fens,  flats,  on  Prosper  fall,  and  make  him 
By  inch-meal  a  disease  !     His  spirits  hear  me, 
And  yet  I  needs  must  curse.     But  they  '11  not  pinch. 
Fright  me  with  urchin  shows,  pitch  me  i'  the  mire, 
Nor  lead  me,  like  a  fire-brand  in  the  dark, 
Out  of  my  way,  unless  he  bid  them.     But 
For  every  trifle  are  they  set  upon  me ; 
Sometimes  like  apes,  that  mow  and  chatter  at  me, 
And  after  bite  me ;  then  like  hedge-hogs,  which 


The  Tempest,  73 


Lie  tumbling  in  my  bare-foot  way,  and  mount 
Their  pricks  at  my  foot-fall.     Sometimes  am  I 
Wounded  with  adders,  who,  with  cloven  tongues, 
Do  hiss  me  into  madness.     Lo !  now,  lo  !       \Enter  Trinculo. 
Here  comes  a  spirit  of  his,  —  and  to  torment  me 
For  bringing  wood  in  slowly.     I  '11  fall  flat ; 
Perchance  he  will  not  mind  me. 
Tnnculo.     Here  's  neither  bush  nor  shrub  to  bear  off  any  weather 
at  all,  and  another  storm  brewing!     I  hear  it  sing  i'  the  wind.     If  it 
should  thunder  as  it  did  before,  I  know  not  where 'to  hide  my  head. 
Yond'  same  cloud  cannot  choose  but  fall  by  pailfuls.     What  have  we 
here  ?   a  man,  or  a  fish .?  dead,  or  alive  t    A  fish ;  he  smells  like  a 
fish,  —  a  very   ancient  and  fish-like   smell;   a  kind  of  (not  of  the 
newest)  Poor- John.     A  strange  fish!     Were  I  in  England  now,  —  as 
once  I  was,  —  and  had  but  this  fish  painted,  not  a  holiday-fool  there 
but  would  give  a  piece  of  silver.     There  would  this  monster  make  a 
man!     When  they  will  not  give  a  doit  to  relieve  a  lame  beggar,  they 
will  lay  out  ten  to  see  a  dead  Indian.     Legged  like  a  man  !  —  and  his 
fins  like  arms !     Warm,  o'  my  troth  !     I  do  now  let  loose  my  opinion, 
and  hold  it  no  longer ;  this  is  no  fish,  but  an  islander  that  hath  lately 
suffered  by  a  thunder-bolt.      \Thunder.\     Alas!  the  storm  is  come 
again ;    my  best  way  is  to  creep  under  his  gaberdine ;  there  is  no 
other  shelter  hereabout ;   misery  acquaints  a  man  with  strange  bed- 
fellows !     I  will  here  shroud  till  the  drench  of  the  storm  be  past. 

\Enter  Stephana,  singing,  — a  bottle  in  his  hand.\ 

Stephana.  A  very  scurvy  time  to  sing,  at  a  man's  funeral.  Well, 
here  'j  my  comfort.     \Drinks\ 

Caliban.     Do  not  torment  me  !     Oh !    '* 

Stephana.  What's  the  matter?  Have  we  devils  here.?  Do  you 
put  tricks  upon  us  with  savages  and  men  of  Ind  ?  Ha!  I  have  not 
escaped  drowning  to  be  afeard  now  of  your  four  legs.     [Pulls  at  the  legs.] 

Caliban.     The  spirit  torments  me !     Oh  ! 

Stephana.  This  is  some  monster  of  the  isle,  with  four  legs ;  who  hath 
got,  as  I  take  it,  an  ague.  Where  the  devil  should  he  learn  our  lan- 
guage ?  I  '11  give  him  some  relief^  if  it  be  but  for  that.  If  I  can  re- 
cover him,  and  keep  him  tame,  and  get  to  Naples  with  him,  he  is  a 
present  for  any  emperor  that  ever  trod  on  neat's  leather. 
Caliban.  Do  not  torment  me,  prithee ! 
I  '11  bring  my  wood  home  faster. 


74  The  Tempest, 

_ j 

Stephana.  He'  s  in  his  fit  now,  and  does  not  talk  after  the  wisest' 
He  shall  taste  of  my  bottle.  If  he  have  never  drunk  wine  before,  it  wil 
go  near  to  remove  his  fit.  If  I  can  recover  him  and  keep  him  tame, 
he  shall  pay  for  him  that  hath  him,  and  that  soundly. 

Caliban.    Thou  dost  me  yet  but  little  hurt.     Thou  wilt  anon, 

I  know  it  by  thy  trembling.     Now  Prosper  works  upon  thee. 

Stephana.  Come  on  your  ways  !  open  your  mouth  !  Here  is  that 
which  will  give  language  to  you,  cat  !  open  your  mouth !  You  cannot 
tell  who  's  your  friend.     Open  your  chaps  again  ! 

Trinculo.  I  should  know  that  voice  !  It  should  be  —  but  he  's 
drown'd,  and  these  are  devils.     O  !  defend  me  !  .  .  . 

Stephana.  Four  legs,  and  two  voices! — a  most  delicate  monster! 
If  all  the  wine  in  my  bottle  will  recover  him,  I  will  help  his  ague. 
Come  !  —  Amen.     I  will  pour  some  in  thine  other  mouth. 

Trincula.     Stephano  !  — 

Stephana.  Doth  thine  other  mouth  call  me  ?  Mercy !  Mercy ! 
Thi^  is  a  devil,  and  no  monster ! 

Trincula.  Stephano! — if  thou  beest  Stephano,  touch  me,  speak 
to  me  ;  for  I  am  Trinculo.     Be  not  afraid,  —  thy  good  friend  Trinculo. 

Stephana.  If  thou  beest  Trinculo,  come  forth.  I  '11  pull  thee  by 
the  lesser  legs.  If  any  be  Trinculo's  legs,  these  are  they.  Thou  art 
very  Trinculo  indeed.  How  camest  thou  to  be  the  siege  of  that  moon- 
calf.? 

Trinculo.  I  took  him  to  be  killed  with  a  thunder-stroke.  But  art 
thou  not  drown'd,  Stephano  }  I  hope  now  thou  art  not  drown'd.  Is 
the  storm  over-blown  ?  I  hid  me  under  the  dead  moon-calfs  gaber- 
dine for  fear  of  the  storm.  And  art  thou  living,  Stephano?  O  Steph- 
ano, two  Neapolitans  'scaped ! 

Stephano.  Prithee,  do  not  turn  me  about.  My  stomach  is  not  con- 
stant. 

Caliban.     These  be  fine  things,  an'  if  they  be  not  sprites. 
That 's  a  brave  god,  —  and  bears  celestial  liquor. 
I  '11  kneel  to  him. 

Stephano.      How  did'st   thou  'scape  ?     How   cam'st    thou    hither  ? 

Swear  by  this  bottle  how  thou  cam'st  hither.     /  escaped  upon  a  butt 

of  sack  which  the  sailors  heaved  overboard,  by  this  bottle  !  which  I 

made  of  the  bark  of  a  tree,  with  my  own  hands  since  I  was  cast  ashore. 

Caliban.     I  '11  swear  upon  that  bottle  to  be  thy 

True  subject ;  for  the  liquor  is  not  earthly. 

Stephano  [to  Trinculo].     Here  !  swear,  then,  how  thou  escaped'st. 


The  Tempest  75 


Trinculo.  Swam  ashore,  man,  like  a  duck  ;  I  can  swim  like  a  duck, 
I  '11  be  sworn. 

Stephano,  Here  !  kiss  the  booL  Tho'  thou  canst  swim  like  a  duck, 
thou  art  made  like  a  goose. 

Trinculo.     O  Stephano,  hast  any  more  of  this  .? 

Stephano.  The  whole  butt,  man  !  My  cellar  is  in  a  rock  by  the  sea- 
side.    How  now,  moon-calf }     How  does  thine  ague  } 

Caliban.     Hast  thou  not  dropped  from  heaven  ? 

Stephano.  Out  of  the  moon,  I  do  assure  thee.  I  was  the  man  i'  the 
moon  when  time  was. 

Caliban.     I  have  seen  thee  in  her,  and  I  do  adore  thee. 
My  mistress  showed  me  thee,  thy  dog,  and  bush. 

Stephano.  Come  !  swear  to  that.  Kiss  the  book.  I  will  furnish  it 
anon  with  new  contents.     Swear ! 

Trinculo.  By  this  good  light,  this  is  a  very  shallow  monster.  1 
afeard  of  him  ?  —  a  very  weak  monster.  The  man  i'  the  moon  !  —  a 
most  poor,  credulous  monster  ! 

Caliban.     I  '11  show  thee  every  fertile  inch  o'  the  island. 
And  kiss  thy  foot.     I  prithee,  be  my  god. 

Trinculo.  By  this  light,  a  most  perfidious  and  drunken  monster! 
When  his  god  's  asleep  he  '11  rob  his  bottle. 

Caliban.     I  '11  kiss  thy  foot.     I  '11  swear  myself  thy  subject. 

Stephano.     Come  on,  then  ;  down,  and  swear ! 

Trinculo.  I  shall  laugh  myself  to  death  at  this  puppy-headed  mon- 
ster. A  most  scurvy  monster !  I  could  find  it  in  ray  heart  to  beat 
him  — 

Stephano.     Come,  kiss. 

Trinculo.  —  but  that  the  poor  monster  's  in  drink.  An  abominable 
monster ! 

Caliban.    I  '11  show  thee  the  best  springs  ;  I  '11  pluck  thee  berries ; 
I  '11  fish  for  thee,  and  get  thee  wood  enough. 
A  plague  upon  the  tyrant  that  T  serve  ! 
I  '11  bear  him  no  more  sticks,  but  follow  thee, 
Thou  wondrous  man. 

Trinculo.  A  most  ridiculous  monster  !  —  to  make  a  wonder  of  a 
poor  drunkard  I 

Caliban.    I  prithee,  let  me  bring  thee  where  crabs  grow; 
And  I  with  my  long  nails  will  dig  thee  pig-nuts. 
Show  thee  a  jay's  nest,  and  instruct  thee  how 
To  snare  the  nimble  marmozet.     I  '11  bring  thee 


76  The  Tempest, 


To  clustering  filberts,  and  sometimes  I  '11  get  thee 
Young  sea-mells  from  the  rock.     Wilt  thou  go  with  me  ? 
Stephana.     I  prithee  now,  lead  the  way,  without  any  more  talking. 
Trinculo,  the  king  and  all  our  company  else  being  drowned,  we  will 
inherit  here.     [  To  Caliban.]    Here  !  bear  my  bottle  1  Fellow  Trinculo, 
we  '11  fill  him  by-and-by  again. 

Caliban  [sings  drunkenly\.     Farewell,  master  ;  farewell,  farewell. 
Trinculo.     A  howling  monster  !     A  drunken  monster  ! 
Caliban.     No  more  dams  I  '11  make  for  fish ; 
Nor  fetch  in  firing 
At  requiring ; 
Nor  scrape  trencher,  nor  wash  dish  ; 
'Ban  'Ban  Ca—  Caliban 
Has  a  new  master,  —  get  a  new  man  I 
Freedom  !  hey-day !  freedom  !  freedom  ! 
Stephano.     O  brave  monster  I  lead  the  way. 

Act  III.     Scene  i. 

This  scene  between  Ferdinand  and  Miranda  is  the  great 
scene  of  the  play.  "  In  Ferdinand,  who  is  a  noble  creature," 
says  Mrs.  Jameson,  "  we  have  all  the  chivalrous  magnanimity 
with  which  man,  in  a  high  state  of  civilization,  disguises  his 
real  superiority,  and  does  humble  homage  to  the  being  of 
whose  destiny  he  disposes ;  while  Miranda,  the  mere  child  of 
nature,  is  struck  with  wonder  at  her  own  new  emotions.  Only 
conscious  of  her  weakness  as  a  woman,  and  ignorant  of  those 
usages  of  society  which  teach  us  to  dissemble  the  real  pas- 
sion, and  assume,  nay,  sometimes  abuse,  an  unreal  and  tran- 
sient power,  she  is  equally  ready  to  place  her  life,  her  love, 
her  service,  at  his  feet." 

*'  This  courting  scene,"  says  Coleridge,  "  is  a  masterpiece  ; 
and  the  first  dawn  of  disobedience  in  the  mind  of  Miranda 
to  the  command  of  her  father  is  very  finely  drawn,  so  as  to 
seem  the  working  of  the  Scriptural  commandment :  *  Thou 
shalt  leave  father  and  mother  and  cleave  unto  thy  wife '  —  or 


The  Tempest,  77 


husband.  Oh,  with  what  exquisite  purity  this  scene  is  con- 
ceived and  executed  !  Shakspeare  may  sometimes  be  gross 
(according  to  his  times)  but  I  boldly  say  he  is  always  moral 
and  modest.  Alas  !  in  our  day  decency  of  manners  is  too 
often  preserved  at  the  expense  of  morality  of  heart." 

The  scene  is  before  the  cell  of  Prospero.    Ferdinand  enters, 
bearing  a  log. 

Ferdinand.     There  be  some  sports  are  painful,  but  their  labor 
Delight  in  them  sets  off.     Some  kinds  of  baseness 
Are  nobly  undergone,  and  most  poor  matters 
Point  to  rich  ends.     This,  my  mean  task,  would  be 
As  heavy  to  me  as  't  is  odious,  but 
The  mistress  which  I  serve  quickens  what 's  dead, 
And  makes  my  labors  pleasures.     O  !  she  is 
Ten  times  more  gentle  than  her  father  's  crabbed, 
And  he  's  composed  of  harshness.     I  must  remove 
Some  thousands  of  these  logs,  and  pile  them  up, 
Upon  a  sore  injunction.     My  sweet  mistress 
Weeps  when  she  sees  me  work,  and  says  such  baseness 
Had  ne'er  like  executor.  —  I  forget ; 
But  these  sweet  thoughts  do  e'en  refresh  my  labors. 
Most  busy  —  blest  when  I  do  it. 

\Enter  Miranda,  —  Prospero  watching  at  a  distance?^ 

Miranda.  Alas!  now  I  pray  you, 

Work  not  so  hard.     I  would  the  lightning  had 
Burnt  up  those  logs  that  you  're  enjoined  to  pile. 
Pray  set  it  down,  and  rest  you.     When  this  burns 
'T  will  weep  at  having  wearied  you.     My  father 
Is  hard  at  study  ;  rest  yourself. 
He  's  safe  for  these  three  hours. 

Ferdinand.  O  most  dear  mistress, 

The  sun  will  set  before  I  shall  discharge 
What  I  must  try  to  do. 

Miranda.  If  you'll  sit  down, 

I  '11  bear  your  logs  the  while.     Pray  give  me  that ; 
I  '11  carry  it  to  the  pile. 

Ferdinand.  No  !  precious  creature, 

I  'd  rather  crack  my  sinews,  break  my  back, 


yS  The  Tempest. 

Than  you  should  such  dishonor  undergo, 
While  I  sit  lazy  by. 

Miranda.  It  would  become  me 

As  well  as  it  does  you,  and  I  should  do  it 
With  much  more  ease,  for  my  good-will  is  to  it, 
And  yours  against  it. 

Prospero  [aside].     Poor  worm,  thou  art  infected; 
This  visitation  shows  it. 

Miranda.  You  look  wearily. 

Ferdinand.     No,  noble  mistress,  't  is  fresh  morning  with  me 
When  you  are  by  at  night.     I  do  beseech  you. 
Chiefly  that  I  may  set  it  in  my  prayers, 
What  is  your  name  ? 

Miranda.  Miranda,  —  O  my  father, 

I  have  broke  your  hest  to  say  so  .' 

Ferdinand.  Admired  Miranda ! 

Indeed  the  top  of  admiration,  worth 
What 's  dearest  in  the  world  !     Full  many  a  lady 
I  have  eyed  with  best  regard,  and  many  a  time 
The  harmony  of  their  tongues  hath  into  bondage 
Brought  my  too  diligent  ear.     For  several  virtues 
Have  I  liked  several  women  ;  never  any 
With  so  full  soul  but  some  defect  in  her 
Did  quarrel  with  the  noblest  grace  she  owned, 
And  put  it  to  the  foil.     But  you  — O  !  you  — 
So  perfect  and  so  peerless,  are  created 
Of  every  creature's  best. 

Miranda.  I  do  not  know 

One  of  my  sex ;  no  woman's  face  remember. 
Save  from  my  glass  mine  own  ;  nor  have  I  seen 
More  that  I  may  call  men  than  you,  good  friend, 
And  my  dear  father.     How  features  are  abroad, 
I  am  skill-less  of;  but  by  my  modesty, 
The  jewel  in  my  dower,  I  would  not  wish 
Any  companion  in  the  world  but  you ; 
Nor  can  imagination  form  a  shape, 
Besides  yourself,  to  like  of.     But  I  prattle 
Something  too  wildly,  and  my  father's  precepts 
Therein  forget. 

Ferdinand.      I  am  in  my  condition 
A  prince,  Miranda ;  I  do  think,  a  king,  — 


The   Tempest.  79 


I  would,  not  so  !  —  and  would  no  more  endure 

This  wooden  slavery  than  I  would  suffer 

The  flesh-fly  blow  my  mouth.     Hear  my  soul  speak  !  — 

The  very  instant  that  I  saw  you,  did 

My  heart  fly  to  your  service ;  and  for  your  sake 

Am  I  this  patient  log-man. 

Miranda.  Do  you  love  me  ? 

Ferdinand.     O  heaven,  O  earth,  bear  witness  to  this  sound, 
And  crown  what  I  profess  with  kind  event 
If  I  speak  true ;  if  hollowly,  invest 
What  best  is  boded  me  to  mischief!    I, 
Beyond  all  limit  of  what  else  i'  the  world, 
Do  love,  prize,  honor  you. 

Miranda.  I  am  a  fool 

To  weep  at  what  I  'm  glad  of 

Prospero  [aside].  Fair  encounter 

Of  two  most  rare  affections.     Heaven  rain  grace  « 

On  that  which  breeds  between  them  ! 

Ferdinand.  Wherefore  weep  you  ? 

Miranda.     At  mine  unworthiness,  that  dare  not  offer 
What  I  desire  to  give,  and  much  less  take 
What  I  shall  die  to  want.     But  this  is  trifling ; 
And  all  the  more  it  seeks  to  hide  itself, 
The  bigger  bulk  it  shows.     Hence,  bashful  cunning  1 
And  prompt  me,  plain  and  holy  innocence  ! 
I  am  your  wife  if  you  will  marry  me. 
If  not,  I '11  die  your  maid.     To  be  your  fellow, 
You  may  deny  me ;  but  I  '11  be  your  servant, 
Whether  you  will  or  no. 

Ferdinand  \kneeling\.     My  mistress,  dearest. 
And  I  thus  humble  ever. 

Miranda.  My  husband,  then  ? 

Ferdinand.     Ay,  with  a  heart  as  willing 
As  bondage  aye  of  freedom.     Here  's  my  hand. 

Miranda.     And  mine,  with  my  heart  in  it.     Now  farewell. 

Scene  2. 

In  this  scene  Stephano  and  Trinculo,  prompted  by  Caliban, 
plan  the  destruction  of  Prospero.     "In  it,"  says  Coleridge, 


8o  The  Tempest 


"the  effect  of  the  previous  conspiracy  scene   (to  murder 

Alonzo)  is  heightened  by  this   counterpart   in  low  Hfe,  in 

which  are  the  same  general  characteristics.     Here  are  also 

shown,"  he  adds,  "  the  springs  of  the  vulgar  in  pohtics,  —  of 

that  kind  of  politics  interwoven  in  human  nature.     Note  the 

good-humored  way  in  which  Shakspeare,  indulgent  to  the 

passions  and  folHes  of  a  mob,  describes  Stephano  passing 

from  the  most  hcentious  freedom  to  absolute  despotism  over 

Trinculo  and  Caliban."     The  three  actors  in  the  scene  are 

all  drunk,  and  drunkenness  brings  out  each  man's  individual 

characteristics.     Stephano  is  boastful.     He  swam  five  and 

thirty  leagues,  off  and  on,  before  he  reached   the   island. 

Calib^in  is  abject,  servile,  full  of  spitefulness,  —  like  a  cross 

dog  who  snarls  at  every  one  but  him  whom  he  acknowledges 

to  be  his  master.     When  Caliban  complains  of  Trinculo,  who 

has  simply  laughed  at  him,  "  King  "  Stephano  says  magnilo- 

quently :  "  Trinculo,  keep  a  good  tongue  in  your  head.     If 

you  prove  a  mutineer  —  the  next  tree  !  " 

Then  Caliban  makes  his  suit  that  they  shall  murder  his  late 

master,  —  Ariel,  invisible,  interrupting  him ;  and  some  very 

funny  by-play  is  made  by  the  persuasion  of  Caliban  and 

Stephano  that  it  is  Trinculo  who  disturbs  them.     The  hatred 

evinced  by  the  monster  for  Trinculo  promises  great  discord 

in   Stephano's  new  dominions.      Here  is  what   is   said  by 

Caliban  :  — 

As  I  told  thee  before, 
I  am  subject  to  a  tyrant  —  a  sorcerer  — 
That  by  his  cunning  hath  cheated  me 
Of  this  island.  ... 
I  say  by  sorcery  he  got  this  isle,  — 
From  me  he  got  it.     If  thy  greatness  will, 
Revenge  it  on  him,  —  for  I  know  thou  dar'st, 
But  this  thing  dare  not.  .  .  . 


The  Tempest.  8 1 


Thou  shalt  be  lord  of  it,  and  I  '11  serve  thee.  .  .  . 

I  '11  yield  him  thee  asleep 

Where  thou  mayst  knock  a  nail  into  his  head. 

For  as  I  told  thee,  't  is  a  custom  with  him 

r  the  afternoon  to  sleep  :  there  thou  may'st  brain  him, 

Having  first  seized  his  books  ;  or  with  a  log 

Batter  his  skull,  or  paunch  him  with  a  stake, 

Or  cut  his  weasand  with  thy  knife.     Remember 

First  to  possess  his  books,  for  without  them 

He  's  but  a  sot,  as  I  am,  nor  hath  not 

One  spirit  to  command.     They  all  do  hate  him 

As  rootedly  as  I.     Burn  but  his  books  ; 

And  that  most  deeply  to  consider  is 

The  beauty  of  his  daughter.     He  himself 

Calls  her  a  non-pareil.     I  ne'er  saw  woman. 

But  only  Sycorax,  my  dam,  and  she  ; 

But  she  as  far  surpasses  Sycorax 

As  greatest  does  the  least. 
Stephana.     Monster,  I  will  kill  this  man.     His  daughter  and  I  will 
be  king  and  queen  (save  our  Graces !) ;  and  Trinculo  and  thyself  shall 
be  viceroys.     Dost  thou  like  the  plot,  Trinculo  .? 
Trinculo.     Excellent. 

Stephana.  Give  me  thy  hand.  I  am  sorry  I  beat  thee,  but  then 
while  thou  livest  keep  a  good  tongue  in  thy  head. 

Again,  when  the  jester  and  butler  are  frightened  out  of 
their  wits  by  the  music  of  Ariel  in  the  air,  Caliban  reassures 
them  by  his  superior  knowledge  :  — 

Be  not  afeard  ;  the  isle  is  full  of  noises, 

Sounds,  and  sweet  airs  that  give  delight  and  hurt  not. 

Sometimes  a  thousand  twangling  instruments 

Will  hunt  about  mine  ears ;  and  sometimes  voices, 

That  if  I  then  had  waked  after  long  sleep 

Would  make  me  sleep  again ;  and  then,  in  dreaming, 

The  clouds  methought  would  open  and  shew  riches 

Ready  to  drop  upon  me,  —  that  when  I  waked 

I  cried  to  dream  again. 

Stephana.     This  will  prove  a  brave  kingdom  to  me, 
Where  I  shall  have  my  music  for  nothing. 

Caliban,     When  Prospero  is  destroyed. 
6 


82  The  Tempest. 

We  may  remark  the  absence  of  profanity  in  these  speeches 
of  the  drunken  sailors.  Shakspeare  did  not  feel  it  necessary 
to  shock  the  ears  of  his  audience  by  the  realism  of  oaths  and 
curses.  But,  as  Hazlitt  remarks,  "  from  Caliban  have  been 
drawn  off  the  elements  of  whatever  is  ethereal  and  refined,  to 
compound  them  in  the  unearthly  mould  of  Ariel." 

Scene  3. 

Here  we  again  see  the  King  of  Naples  and  his  party, 
searching  for  Prince  Ferdinand.  Poor  old  Gonzalo  is 
wearied  out.  The  King,  now  that  his  old  comforter  has 
ceased  to  play  Mark  Tapley,  loses  heart  also.  The  conspira- 
tors whisper  together.  Then  comes  soft  music,  and  spirits 
by  order  of  Prospero  bring  in  a  banquet.  The  good  see  in 
it  the  hand  and  the  protection  of  heaven ;  the  bad  make  a 
mock  at  it.  Alonzo  declines  to  eat,  and  good  Gonzalo,  lean- 
ing tenderly  over  him,  tries  to  persuade  him,  reminding  him 
of  tales  of  their  youth. 

Then  Ariel,  who  is  "  the  swiftness  of  thought  personified," 
says  Hazlitt,  bears  off  the  feast,  and  denounces  the  wicked. 
Two  of  them,  the  King  and  Sebastian,  are  overwhelmed  by  a 
sense  of  their  past  guilt.  Antonio,  impenitent,  becomes  des- 
perate. Sebastian,  Antonio,  and  Alonzo  rush  from  the  spot 
where  their  sin  has  found  them  out,  and  Gonzalo  and  the 
younger  courtiers  follow  them. 

Act   IV.     Scene  i. 
This  scene  is  before  Prospero's  cell.    The  trial  of  Ferdi- 
nand is  over ;  the  father  of  Miranda  has  accepted  him  as  her 
suitor,  and  thus  speaks  to  him  :  — 

If  I  have  too  austerely  punished  you, 
Your  compensation  makes  amends  ;  for  I 


The  Tempest.  83 


Have  given^ou^erejjhread  of  my  own  life, 

Or  that  for  which  I  live  ;  whom  once~again 

I  tender  to  thy  hand.     All  thy  vexations 

Were  but  my  trial  of  thy  love,  and  thou 

Hast  strangely  stood  the  test.     Here,  afore  Heaven, 

I  ratify  this  my  rich  gift.     O  Ferdinand, 

Do  not  smile  at  me  that  I  boast  her  off, 

For  thou  wilt  find  she  will  outstrip  all  praise 

And  make  it  halt  behind  her. 

Ferdinand.  I  do  believe  it 

Against  an  oracle. 

Prospero.     Then  as  my  gift  and  thine  own  acquisition 
Worthily  purchased,  take  my  daughter. 
Sit,  then,  and  talk  with  her  ;  she  is  thine  own. 

Next,  led  by  the  delicate  Ariel,  follows  a  masque,  —  such 
a  one  as  was  in  fashion  in  the  time  of  Shakspeare.  The  per- 
formers are  Iris,  Ceres,  Juno,  and  nymphs.  This  masque  is 
founded  upon  one  represented  at  Sterling,  before  King  James 
and  his  court  in  1594,  at  the  baptism  of  Prince  Henry.  It 
contains  some  lovely  poetry,  and  blessings  appropriate  for  a 
marriage  occasion.  In  the  midst  of  the  performance  Pros- 
pero recollects  that  his  life  is  threatened  by  the  vile  trio, 
Stephano,  Trinculo,  and  Caliban.  Much  excited,  he  answers 
Ferdinand's  inquiring  looks  by  one  of  the  noblest  passages 
in  all  poetry  :  — 

/Oujjieyeh  now.are  ended.    These  our  actorsX 
j  As  I  foretold  you,  were  all  spirits^_and  I 

j  Are  melted  into  air  —  into  thin  air.  ' 

(  And  like  the  baseless  fabric  of  this  vision, 
\  The  cloud-capped  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces, 
\  The  solemn  temples,  the  great  globe  itself, 

Yea,  all  which  it  inherit,  shall  dissolve  ; 
f  And,  like  this  unsubstantial  pageant  faded, 

Leave  not  a  wrack  behind.     We  are  such  stuflF 

As  dreams  are  made  of,  and  our  little  life 

Is  rounded  with  a  sleep. 


84  The  Tempest. 


Meantime  Stephano,  Trinculo,  and  Caliban  are  splashing 
and  floundering  near  by  in  a  dirty  pool ;  emerging  from  the 
pool,  they  spy  rich  clothing  which  Prospero  has  sacrificed  to 
be  a  bait  for  them.  In  vain  Caliban  urges  them  on  to  the 
deed  of  most  importance,  the  murder  of  Prospero.  What 
with  the  wine  and  the  wet  and  the  gay  clothes,  they  are 
quite  beyond  his  management.  Stephano,  seeing  the  clothes 
on  a  line,  revives  some  of  his  nautical  experiences  about  the 
equatorial  line,  and  the  old  saying  that  the  hair  comes  off 
those  who  pass  under  it.  As  they  are  engaged  in  robbery, 
Prospero  sends  spirits  like  a  pack  of  dogs,  to  hunt  and 
rend  them. 

Act  V.     Scene  i . 

Prospero  has  now  all  his  enemies  in  his  power.  He 
seats  himself  in  his  magic  robes,  attended  by  Ariel.  "  As 
Miranda,"  says  Mrs.  Jameson,  "being  what  she  is,  could 
only  have  had  an  enchanted  island  for  her  abode,  a  Ferdi- 
nand for  her  lover,  an  Ariel  for  her  attendant,  —  so  she  could, 
with  propriety,  have  had  no  other  father  than  the  majestic 
and  gifted  being  who  fondly  claims  her  as  a  thread  of  his 
own  life,  —  nay,  that  for  which  he  Hves.  Prospero,  with 
his  magical  powers,  his  superhuman  wisdom,  his  moral  worth 
and  grandeur,  and  his  kingly  dignity,  is  one  of  the  most  sub- 
lime visions  that  ever  swept  before  the  eye  of  fancy.  He 
controls  the  invisible  world,  and  works  through  the  agency 
of  spirits  ;  not  by  any  evil  and  forbidden  compact,  but  solely 
by  superior  might  of  intellect,  —  by  potent  spells  gathered 
from  the  lore  of  ages,  and  abjured  when  he  mingles  again 
as  a  prince  among  men." 

I  do  not  think  we  commonly  estimate  the  esteem  in  which 
astrology  and  its  kindred  studies  were  held  in  Shakspeare's 


The   Tempest.  85 


age.  Some  of  the  greatest  men  in  that  day  dabbled  in  such 
sciences.  "  Lord  Bacon,  Archbishop  Ussher,  Milton,  Dry- 
den,  Bishop  Hall,  Sir  Matthew  Hale,  Sir  Richard  Steele,  — 
some  of  them  hving  in  Shakspeare's  time,  and  some  later,  — 
had  dealings  with  astrology."  Queen  Elizabeth  kept  her 
own  astrologer.  Dr.  Dee.  He  was  made  Chancellor  of  St. 
Paul's,  and  drew  up  many  important  state  papers.  Shak- 
speare  was  no  astrologer  himself,  for  he  ridicules  it  in  "  King 
Lear ;  "  but  there  was  nothing  degrading  to  a  great  man  in  his 
day  in  making  him  a  first-class  wizard. 

Being  sure  of  the  happiness  of  Miranda  and  Ferdinand, 
and  of  Prospero's  triumph  over  his  enemies,  what  we  most 
wish  for,  in  the  fifth  act,  is  the  release  of  dainty  Ariel.  Th& 
King  of  Naples  and  his  attendants  are  brought  into  a  magic 
circle,  that  Prospero  has  drawn  around  him ;  there  the  King 
of  Naples  and  Sebastian  are  overcome  and  conscience- 
stricken  ;  while  Ariel  sings  his  loveHest  song. 

"It  has  been  observed,"  says  Hazlitt,  "that  there  is  a 
peculiar  charm  in  the  songs  introduced  in  Shakspeare,  which, 
without  conveying  any  very  distinct  images,  seem  to  recall 
all  the  feelings  connected  with  them,  —  like  snatches  of  half- 
forgotten  music  heard  indistinctly,  and  at  intervals.  There 
is  this  effect  produced  by  Ariel's  songs,  which  seem  to 
sound  in  the  air,  as  if  the  person  playing  them  were 
invisible." 

Thus  he  sings,  while  helping  to  divest  Prospero  of  his 
magic  robe,  and  attire  him  as  Duke  of  Milan :  — 

Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I, 
In  a  cowslip's  bell  I  lie  ; 
There  I  couch  when  owls  do  cry. 
On  the  bat's  back  do  I  fly, 
After  summer,  merrily ; 


86  The  Tempest, 


Merrily,  merrily,  shall  I  live  now, 

Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough. 

Even  in  this  hour  of  happiness,  the  Master  sighs  to  think 
how  he  shall  miss  his  dainty  spirit. 

Then,  to  the  consternation  of  all,  even  the  good  Gonzalo, 
who  has  no  wrongs  to  Prospero  upon  his  soul,  the  banished 
Duke  steps  forth  in  his  own  person,  and  confronts  his 
enemies.  Alonzo  welcomes  him  with  penitence  and  curiosity. 
Gonzalo  believes  not  for  joy,  when  he  beholds  him  ;  Sebastian 
cries,  "  The  devil  speaks  in  him ;  "  Antonio  stands  dumb- 
founded. 

Then  Alonzo,  in  his  contrition  and  bereavement,  hearing 
that  Prospero  has  a  daughter,  bethinks  him  of  his  lost  Fer- 
dinand, and  cries  :  — 

O  heavens !  that  they  were  living  both  in  Naples, 
The  king  and  queen  there  I 

At  this  Prospero  invites  him  to  look  into  his  cell,  where 
they  discover  Ferdinand  and  Miranda  playing  at  chess. 

Miranda.     Sweet  lord,  you  play  me  false. 

Ferdinand.     No,  my  dearest  love, 
I  would  not  for  the  world. 

Miranda.     Yes,  for  a  score  of  kingdoms  you  should  wrangle, 
And  I  would  call 't  fair  play. 

Alonzo.  If  this  prove  but 

A  vision  of  the  island,  one  dear  son 
Shall  I  twice  lose. 

Sebastian.  A  most  high  miracle  ! 

Ferdinand  [perceiving  his  father  and  kneeling  to  him]. 
Though  the  seas  threaten,  they  are  merciful ; 
I  have  cursed  them  without  cause. 

Alonzo.  Now  all  the  blessings 

Of  a  glad  father  compass  thee  about ! 
Arise,  and  say  how  thou  camest  here. 

Miranda.  O,  wonder ! 

How  many  goodly  creatures  are  there  here  I 


The  Tempest.  87 


How  beauteous  mankind  is !     O,  brave  new  world ! 
That  has  such  people  in  it.       ~ 

Trospero.  ~  ■"-  'T  is.  new  to  thee. 

Alonzo.     What  is  this  maid  with  whom  thou  wast  at  play  ? 
Your  eld'st  acquaintance  cannot  be  three  hours. 
Is  she  the  goddess  that  hath  severed  as, 
And  brought  us  thus  together  ? 

Ferdinand.  Sir,  she 's  mortal ; 

But,  by  immortal  Providence,  she 's  mine ! 
I  chose  her  when  I  could  not  ask  my  father 
For  his  advice,  nor  thought  I  had  one.     She 
Is  daughter  to  this  famous  Duke  of  Milan, 
Of  whom  so  often  I  have  heard  renown, 
But  never  saw  before.     Of  whom  I  have 
Received  a  second  life  ;  and  second  father, 
This  lady  makes  him  to  me. 

Alonzo.  I  am  hers. 

But  O !  how  oddly  will  it  sound,  that  I 
Must  ask  my  child  forgiveness ! 

Prosper o.  There,  sir,  stop ; 

Let  us  not  burthen  our  remembrance 
With  a  heaviness  that 's  gone. 

And  in  furtherance  of  this  generous  sentiment,  none  of  the 
wicked,  in  this  play,  are  any  longer  punished.  Indeed,  we 
may  be  sure  that  even  their  just  punishment  would  have 
marred  the  felicity  of  tender-hearted  Miranda. 

The  captain  and  the  boatswain  of  the  wrecked  ship  come 
in  to  report  that  she  is  riding  safely  at  anchor  in  the  road- 
stead. Then  Caliban,  with  Stephano  and  Trinculo,  in  their 
stolen  apparel,  are  driven  into  the  presence  of  the  King, 
Duke,  and  Princes,  by  Ariel.  The  drunken  butler,  and  the 
drunken  jester  are  recognized  by  their  masters,  and  the 
worst  punishment  they  meet  with  is  a  io.^  cramps,  and 
separation  from  their  stolen  goods  and  butt  of  sack;  for 
they  are  ordered  at  once  on  board.  Caliban,  with  the 
reflection,  — 


88  The  Tempest. 


What  a  thrice  double  ass 
Was  I  to  take  this  drunkard  for  a  god  ! 

is  sent  at  once  to  deck  the  cell  for  all  the  company,  —  and 
so  earn  pardon ;  while  the  last  words  of  the  play  are  those 
of  Prospero :  — 

I  promise  you  calm  seas,  auspicious  gales, 
And  sail  so  expeditious  that  shall  catch 
Your  royal  fleet  far  off.     My  Ariel,  —  chick,  — 
That  is  thy  charge,  —  then  to  the  elements 
Be  free,  and  fare  thou  well. 


n 


MIDSUMMER    NIGHT'S    DREAM. 


MIDSUMMER   NIGHT'S   DREAM. 

NO  Play  was  ever  named  more  appropriately  than  this ;  it 
is  a  "Dream,"  —  a  dream  composed  of  elves,  mis- 
takes, wild  fantasies,  and  the  grotesque.  Its  time  is  night. 
When  the  day  dawns  the  shadows  flee  away,  the  dramatis 
personcB  awake,  and  all  comes  right  again.  Shakspeare  may 
have  dreamed  it,  lying  on  some  cowslip  bank.  And,  what  is 
most  remarkable  in  this  play,  written  by  a  master  of  charac- 
ter, there  are  almost  no  human  characters  in  it  that  we  can 
take  an  interest  in.  We  care  little  for  Helena,  or  Hermia ; 
Lysander,  or  Demetrius ;  Theseus,  or  Hippolyta  :  our  inter- 
est is  in  the  loveliness,  and  gracefulness,  and  grotesqueness  of 
the  dream.  Speaking  of  Shakspeare  as  a  master  of  character, 
I  should  like  to  quote  to  you  a  passage  from  Coleridge, 
which  applies  with  equal  force  to  him  who,  I  think,  most 
nearly  approached  Shakspeare,  —  I  mean  Balzac.  Coleridge 
says  :  "  The  characters  of  Shakspeare's  dramatis  personcBy 
like  those  in  real  life,  are  to  be  inferred  by  the  reader,  — 
they  are  not  told  him.  Like  characters  in  real  life,  they 
are  very  commonly  misunderstood,  and  almost  always  under- 
stood by  different  persons  in  different  ways ;  .  .  .  even  the 
character  himself  sees  himself  through  the  medium  of  his 
character,  and  not  exactly  as  he  is.  .  .  .  You  may  know 
whether  you  h^ve,  in  fact,  discovered  the  poet's  own  idea, 


92  Midsttmmer  Nighfs  Dream. 

by  all  the  speeches  receiving  light  from  it.  .  .  .  You  must  not 
suppose  a  pressure  and  a  passion  always  acting  on,  or  in, 
the  character.  Passion,  in  Shakspeare,  is  that  by  which  the 
individual  is  distinguished  from  others,  not  that  which  makes 
a  different  kind  of  man  of  him.  Shakspeare  followed  the 
main  march  of  human  affections.  He  entered  into  no  anal- 
yses of  the  passions  and  faiths  of  men,  but  assured  himself 
that  such  and  such  passions  and  faiths  were  grounded  on  our 
common  nature,  and  not  on  the  mere  incidents  of  ignorance 
or  disease.  This  is  an  important  consideration,  and  con- 
stitutes our  Shakspeare  the  morning-star  —  the  guide  and 
pioneer  —  of  true  philosophy.  ...  In  his  mode  of  drawing 
characters  there  are  no  pompous  descriptions  of  a  man  by 
himself;  his  character  is  to  be  drawn,  as  in  real  life,  from 
the  whole  course  of  the  play,  or  out  of  the  mouths  of  friends 
or  enemies." 

Perhaps  this  passage  seems  inappropriate  as  an  opening  to 
a  drama  in  which  there  are  no  carefully  delineated  char- 
acters ;  but  even  here,  Shakspeare  could  not  create  hu- 
man beings  without  enduing  them  with  life.  We  have  the 
good-natured,  appreciative  Theseus,  who  makes  the  best  of 
everything;  the  proud,  fastidious  Hippolyta;  the  tall,  fair, 
spiteful,  cowardly,  exasperated  Helena ;  the  petite^  sprighdy, 
dark,  confiding,  outraged  Hermia,  — brave,  but  with  a  will  and 
temper  of  her  own  ;  Lysander,  the  true  gentleman  and  lover ; 
Demetrius,  who  was  no  gentleman,  but  at  once  hot-tempered 
and  a  sneak.  Just  as  in  newspaper  illustrations,  a  French 
artist,  with  half  a  dozen  random  scratches  of  the  pen,  makes 
his  sketch  instinct  with  life  and  meaning,  so  Shakspeare,  in 
his  merest  sketches,  gives  the  spirit  of  a  finished  and  elabo- 
rated portrait ;  and  nowhere  do  we  see  this  more  plainly  than 


Midsummer  Night's  Dream.  93 

in  the  "  Midsummer  Night's  Dream."  Observe,  in  con- 
trast, that  the  fairies,  and  the  clown-fairy.  Puck,  have  no 
cliaracters  at  all.  Oberon  is  possessed  by  the  spirit  of 
jealousy ;  Titania,  by  a  spirit  of  tormenting ;  Puck  delights 
in  putting  his  finger  into  every  pie,  for  froHc's  sake,  be 
it  to  mar  or  mend;  but  we  do  not  feel  in  the  least  that 
Oberon  is  of  a  jealous  disposition,  or  that  Titania  is  a 
fairy  Cressida,  or  that  Puck  is  steeped  in  malignity.  Their 
jealousy,  their  caprices,  or  their  mischief,  are  mere  surface 
qualities. 

The  Gods  of  Hellas,  as  we  find  them  in  the  Iliad,  were 
of  various  origins.  Besides  the  Olympian  divinities,  there 
were  the  adopted  gods  of  Asia,  —  the  gods,  Saturn,  and 
others,  who  preceded  the  Olympians,  and  who  seem  a  survi- 
val of  the  light  from  Paradise ;  there  were  also  deified  quali- 
ties, as  Rumor,  Discord,  etc. ;  and  there  were  the  gods  native 
to  the  soil,  —  dryads,  and  nereids,  the  wood-nymphs,  water- 
nymphs,  and  sea-nymphs,  of  antiquity.  In  like  manner, 
everywhere  that  the  Celts  settled,  —  or  those  Indo-Aryan 
tribes  who  were  our  ancestors,  —  they  made,  or  they  found, 
the  earth  peopled  with  elves,  fairies,  and  nixies.  The  elves, 
or  gnomes,  lived  under  the  earth ;  the  fairies  above  ground ; 
the  nixies  in  the  water.  The  monks  of  the  tenth,  eleventh, 
and  twelfth  centuries  —  chiefly  men  of  peasant  birth  — 
carried  their  belief  in  these  beings  into  their  cells.  "  They 
adopted  the  popular  traditions,  and  turned  them  into  Saints' 
legends.  Indeed,  a  more  extensive  knowledge  of  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  fairies,"  says  Mr.  Thomas  Wright,  the  antiquary,  "  may 
perhaps  be  gathered  from  the  legends  of  the  Anglo-Saxon 
Saints  than  from  all  other  sources.  Only  remembering  that 
in  the  transformation,  the  elves,  when  mischievously  inclined, 


V 


94  Midsummer  Nighfs  Dream. 

became  devils ;  and  when  beneficent,  angels."  The  familiar 
name  of  Old  Nick,  popularly  applied  to  the  great  spirit  of 
Evil,  is  borrowed  from  the  vocabulary  of  Paganism,  —  the 
nickers,  or  nixies,  being  water-fairies,  who  not  only  dwelt  like 
kelpies  in  the  lakes  and  rivers,  but  had  their  habitation  in  the 
sea.  There  is  nothing  that  commends  itself  to  our  fancy  in 
any  of  the  popular  stories  of  little  black  elves,  hatched  out 
of  an  incubus,  who  spent  their  time  in  alternately  persecuting 
and  assisting  the  human  race.  The  Pucks,  follets,  and 
brownies,  of  domestic  life,  "  generally  haunted  the  houses 
of  country  people,  whence  neither  holy  water,  nor  exorcism, 
could  expel  them.  They  were  invisible,  but  made  known 
their  presence  by  throwing  about  stones  and  wood,  and  even 
the  pots  and  kettles."  Our  devil  derived  from  them  his 
honis,  his  hoofs,  and  tail.  They  were  the  devils  who  held 
intercourse  with  witches.  In  an  old  manuscript  in  Vienna, 
written  before  such  familiarity  with  the  world  of  spirits  was 
considered  to  deserve  the  extreme  pains  of  heresy,  we  find 
penances  imposed  on  those  who  "  had  thrown  little  bows, 
and  small  shoes  into  their  cellars  and  barns,  in  order  that 
the  hobgoblins  might  come  thither  to  play  with  them,  and 
might  in  return,  bring  them  other  people's  goods."  The  same 
class  of  stories  is  still  popular  in  Brittany.  But  as  we  read 
of  these  coarse  goblins,  lubber-fiends,  or  changeling  elves, 
our  minds  reject  them  either  as  fairies  or  as  devils.  These 
thoughts  become  rebuked  when  we  see  how  Shakspeare  has 
evoked  the  richest  poetry  out  of  what  seemed  to  us  unpromis- 
ing material.  Fairies,  long  since,  would  have  faded  from  our 
literature,  had  not  Shakspeare,  seizing  on  the  traditions  of  an 
ignorant  and  semi-pagan  people,  embalmed  them,  to  be  the 
delight  of  the  civilized  world. 


Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  95 


The  only  poetical  notion  which  we  find  in  ancient  chroni- 
cles concerning  elves  professes  to  be  given  on  the  authority 
of  one  of  themselves.  He  said  that  they  were  a  portion  of 
the  angels  who  fell  with  Lucifer,  but  inasmuch  as,  having 
been  deluded  and  seduced,  they  were  not  so  criminal  as 
their  fellows,  their  sentence  had  been  less  severe  ;  they  were 
allowed  to  live  on  earth,  —  some  of  them  having  their  peculiar 
dwelling-place  in  the  air,  others  in  the  waters,  some  again  in 
trees  and  fountains,  and  many  in  the  caverns  of  the  earth.  The 
elfin  informant  went  on  to  confess  that  "  as  Christianity  spread 
over  the  earth  they  had  much  less  power  than  formerly." 

Shakspeare  has  given_us  five^sppejes  of  these  supernatural 
beings,  -—  the  spirit  of  the  air,  who  is  Ariel ;  the  fairies  proper, 
who  dance  in  their  rings  and  enjoy  themselves  by  moonlight ; 
the  dreamland  fairy  (Queen  Mab)  in  "  Romeo  and  Juliet ;  " 
the  elfin  Puckj  and  perhaps  we  may  add  that  he  has 
drawn  the  "lubber-fiend,"  all  corporeality,  in  Caliban.  These 
differ  from  one  another  as  star  from  star.  Drayton,  Shaks- 
peare's  contemporary,  wrote  a  beautiful,  and  little  appreciated 
poem  upon  Queen  Titania.  The  ballad  of  "  Robin  Good- 
fellow,"  to  be  found  in  our  collections  of  ballad  poetry  is 
attributed  to  Ben  Jonson,  but  there  were  earlier  ballads  on 
the  same  subject.  Some  trace  the  name  of  Puck  to  an 
old  fashioned  name  for  the  devil,  derived  from  the  same 
word  as  our  Americanism  "  spook,"  which  is  of  Low-Dutch 
origin. 

The  "  Midsummer  Night's  Dream "  was  first  printed  in 
1598.  It  seems  to  have  been  an  object  of  care  to  Shaks- 
peare, as  the  earliest  printed  copies  are  more  carefully  cor- 
rected than  usual.  It  went  early  into  two  editions.  Theseus 
and  Hippolytahad  their  origin  in  Chaucer's  "  Knight's  Tale." 


96  Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 

The  scene  is  supposed  to  be  laid  in  Athens,  in  which  case 
Athens  must  have  been  a  mediaeval  principality  as  to  man- 
ners and  customs.  Theseus,  having  conquered  the  Queen 
of  the  Amazons,  is  about  to  wed  her  when  the  action  opens. 
He  shows  himself  at  once  kindly  and  jovial.  The  Amazo- 
nian lady  is  matter-of-fact  and  business-like.  I  see  reason  to 
fear  he  got  the  worst  share  in  his  matrimonial  bargain. 

Act   I.     Scene  i. 

As  usual,  the  opening  scene  gives  the  keynote  of  the  drama. 
Theseus  and  Hippolyta  are  speaking  of  the  moon,  the  hours 
of  night,  the  time  of  dreams,  when  we  first  see  them ;  as 
they  are  talking  they  are  interrupted  by  an  Athenian  pater 
familias,  who  comes  to  complain  to  his  sovereign  that  his 
daughter  Hermia  declines  to  marry  Demetrius,  the  husband 
he  has  chosen  for  her,  and  wilfully  persists  that  she  will  wed 
Lysander.  Theseus,  thus  appealed  to,  addresses  some 
commonplace  remarks  to  Hermia  as  to  a  daughter's  duty, 
but  in  the  flush  of  his  own  prosperous  wooing  he  is  evidently 
disposed  to  help  and  pity  the  poor  girl,  who  modestly  asks 
what  is  the  legal  penalty  of  disobedience.  Theseus  answers 
her:  — 

Either  to  die  the  death,  or  to  abjure 

Forever  the  society  of  men. 

Therefore,  fair  Hermia,  question  your  desires, 

Know  of  your  youth,  examine  well  your  blood 

Whether  if  you  yield  not  to  your  father's  choice 

You  can  endure  the  livery  of  a  nun, 

For  aye  to  be  in  shady  cloister  mewed,  — 

To  live  a  barren  sister  all  your  life, 

Chanting  faint  hymns  to  the  cold  fruitless  moon. 

Thrice  blessed  they  that  master  so  their  blood 

To  undergo  such  maiden  pilgrimage  ; 

But  earthlier  happy  is  the  rose  distilled 


Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  97 

Than  that  which,  withering  on  the  virgin  thorn, 
Grows,  lives,  and  dies  in  single  blessedness. 

Hermia.     So  will  I  grow,  so  live,  so  die,  my  lord, 
Ere  I  will  yield  my  virgin  patent  up 
Unto  his  lordship,  whose  unwished  yoke 
My  soul  consents  not  to  give  sovereignty. 

Theseus.     Take  time  to  pause ;  and  by  the  next  new  moon 
(The  sealing  day  between  my  love  and  me, 
For  everlasting  bond  of  fellowship), 
.  Upon  that  day  either  prepare  to  die. 
For  disobedience  to  your  father's  will, 
Or  else,  to  wed  Demetrius  as  he  would. 
Or  on  Diana's  altar  to  protest. 
For  aye,  austerity  and  single  life. 

Demetrius,  at  the  close  of  this  speech,  is  insolent  and 
peremptory  with  Lysander,  and  pitiless  to  Hermia.  Lysander, 
as  a  gentleman,  could  not  yield  up  the  woman  who  had  just 
made  a  declaration  of  her  love  for  him.  He  answers  old 
Egeus  with  self-constraint  and  dignity,  bringing  however,  a 
perfectly  true  accusation  against  Demetrius,  that  he  had,  while 
courting  Hermia,  made  love  to  Nedar's  daughter  Helena,  and 
"  won  her  soul ; "  which  accusation  has  considerable  effect 
on  Theseus,  who,  notwithstanding  his  stern  words,  contrives 
that  the  lovers  shall  have  an  uninterrupted  interview.  He 
leads  off  Hippolyta,  saying,  "  What  cheer,  my  love  ?  "  At  first 
sight  it  seems  as  if  this  question  indicated  that  Hippolyta  was 
saddened  by  Hermia's  sad  case,  but  as  we  come  to  know 
her  better  I  think  we  shall  conclude  that  she  was  simply 
vexed  at  having  her  lord's  time  and  attention  drawn  away 
from  her  by  a  matter  of  business. 

Lysander  and  Hermia  being  left  alone,  here  is  what  they 
say  to  each  other.  I  have  omitted  the  interruptions  made 
by  Hermia  to  her  lover's  speech;  they  are  considered  in- 
terpolations by  some  commentators. 

7 


98  Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 

Lysander.     How  now,  my  love  ?     "Why  is  your  cheek  so  pale  ? 
How  chance  the  roses  there  do  fade  so  fast  ? 

Hermia.     Belike  for  want  of  rain ;  which  I  could  well 
Beteem  them  from  the  tempest  of  mine  eyes. 

Lysander.     Ah  me !  for  aught  that  I  could  ever  read, 
Could  ever  hear  by  tale  or  history, 
The^ourse  of  true  iov  e  Jiever  did  run  smooth ; 
But  either  it  was  different  in  blood, 
— Or  else  misgrafted  with  respect  of  years, 

Or  else  it  stood  upon  the  choice  of  friends,  « 

Or,  if  there  were  a  sympathy  in  choice, 

War,  death,  or  sickness  did  lay  siege  to  it, 

Making  it  as  momentary  as  a  sound. 

Swift  as  a  shadow,  short  as  any  dream, 

Brief  as  the  lightning  in  the  collied  night, 

That  in  a  spleen  unfolds  both  heaven  and  earth, 

And  ere  a  man  has  time  to  say.  Behold  ! 

The  jaws  of  darkness  do  devour  it  up  ; 

So  quick  bright  things  come  to  confusion. 

Hermia.     If  then  true  lovers  have  been  ever  crossed, 
It  stands  as  an  edict  in  destiny  ; 
Then  let  us  teach  our  trial  patience, 
Because  it  is  a  customary  cross, 
As  due  to  love  as  thoughts,  and  dreams,  and  sighs. 
Wishes,  and  tears,  —  poor  Fancy's  followers. 

Lysander.     A  good  persuasion.     Therefore  hear  me,  Hermia. 
I  have  a  widowed  aunt,  a  dowager. 
Of  great  revenue,  and  she  hath  no  child. 
From  Athens  is  her  house  remote  seven  leagues, 
And  she  respects  me  as  her  only  son. 
There,  gentle  Hermia,  may  I  marry  thee  ; 
And  to  that  place  the  sharp  Athenian  law 
Cannot  pursue  us.     If  thou  lov'st  me,  then, 
Steal  forth  thy  father's  house  to-morrow  night. 
And  in  the  wood  a  league  without  the  town, 
Where  I  did  meet  thee  once  with  Helena,  ■ 

To  do  observance  to  a  morn  of  May, 
There  will  I  stay  for  thee. 

Hermia.  My  good  Lysander  ! 

I  swear  to  thee  by  Cupid's  strongest  bow, 


Midsummer  Night's  Dream.  99 

By  his  best  arrow  with  the  golden  head. 
By  the  simplicity  of  Venus'  doves, 
By  that  which  knitteth  souls  and  prospers  loves, 
And  by  that  fire  which  burned  the  Carthage  queen, 
When  the  false  Trojan  under  sail  was  seen, 
By  all  the  vows  that  ever  men  have  broke, 
In  number  more  than  ever  women  spoke, 
In  that  same  place  thou  hast  appointed  me 
To-morrow  truly  will  I  meet  with  thee. 

•  Lysander.     Keep  promise,  love.    Look !  here  comes  Helena. 
Hermia.     Good  speed,  fair  Helena.     "Whither  away .? 

Helena  is  not  disposed  to  receive  her  rival's  courtesy  with 
any  amiability.  Demetrius  had  won  her  heart,  while  earnest 
only  in  pursuit  of  Hermia.  She  was  a  shrew  by  nature, 
and  is  now  petulant  and  soured  by  jealousy  and  misfortune. 
Why  Lysander  and  Hermia  thought  it  best  to  tell  her,  as 
they  do,  their  plan  for  elopement  I  cannot  imagine.  The 
speeches  are  very  pretty  in  which  they  announce  it  to  her. 

Lysander.     Helen,  to  you  our  minds  we  will  unfold ; 
To-morrow  night  when  Phoebe  doth  behold 
Her  silvery  visage  in  the  watery  glass, 
Decking  with  liquid  pearl  the  bladed  grass,  — 
A  time  that  lover's  flights  doth  still  conceal, — 
Through  Athens'  gates  we  have  devised  to  steal. 

Hermia.     And  in  the  wood  where  often  you  and  I 
Upon  faint  primrose  beds  were  wont  to  lie, 
Emptying  our  bosoms  of  their  counsel  sweet, 
There  my  Lysander  and  myself  shall  meet ; 
And  thence  from  Athens  turn  away  our  eyes 
To  seek  new  friends  and  stranger  companies, 
Farewell,  sweet  playfellow ;  pray  thou  for  us, 
And  good  luck  grant  thee  thy  Demetrius ! 

After  receiving  this  kindly  sweet  farewell  Helena  resolves 
to  make  mischief  by  telling  Demetrius  the  lovers'  plans. 
Perhaps  she  thinks  he  will  be  pleased  with  her  for  telling 


lOO  Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 

him,  perhaps  that  he  will  turn  in  disgust  from  Hermia; 
anyhow,  she  will  enjoy  the  highly  indecorous  privilege  of 
following  him  by  night  into  the  wood.  We  may  mark  here 
the  difference  shown  throughout  the  play  in  the  sense  of 
modesty  between  Helena  and  Hermia. 

Scene  2. 

U  This  is  one  of  Shakspeare's  most  inimitable  comic  scenes, 
and  on  it  the  whole  play  turns.  Shakspeare's  vulgar  folk 
have  none  of  the  exaggeration  of  those  of  Dickens ; 
they  are  like  Hardy's  or  George  EHot's,  —  comic  because 
they  are  simply  themselves.  Shakspeare  was  no  lover  of 
mobs,  nor  of  "  mechanicals,"  —  he  was  not  imbued  with 
our  modern  spirit  of  democracy ;  but  the  English  vulgar 
now,  and  still  more  in  Shakspeare's  time,  were  not  like  the 
great  body  of  the  American  working- classes,  with  whom 
stupidity  is  not  the  danger,  but  such  a  keen  sense  of  class 
interests  as  will  make  them  easy'  to  be  led  by  demagogues 
or  bosses,  while  all  the  time  they  flatter  themselves  they 
rule.  It  is  a  crude  intelligence,  combined  with  self-will  and 
a  litde  knowledge  (just  enough  to  mislead  the  judgment), 
that  is  the  danger  with  our  working-classes.  In  Shaks- 
peare's day  (and  with  the  ordinary  English  mob)  the  danger 
lay  in  brutishness,  and  a  sort  of  impassive  stupidity.  A 
French  mob  may  be  led  by  a  sentiment ;  an  English  mob 
is  blind,  and  fierce,  and  brutal;  an  American  mob  means 
business,  and  in  all  its  excitement,  keeps  its  own  self- 
interest —  the  main  chance  it  has  in  contemplation  —  well 
in  mind. 

There  is  a  double  satire  in  these  scenes  with  the  play- 
acting mechanics.     First,  they  are  satirized  as  a  class,  and 


Midsummer  Nighfs  Bream,, '  y  \  /iW, 

secondly,  there  is  a  satire  on  the  goings-on  in  a  dramatic 
company. 

Observe  how  Bottom  —  Bully  Bottom — takes  everything 
that  he  can  out  of  Quince's  hands.  Note  his  desire  to 
act  every  character  himself.  He  is  ready  to  squeak  in  a 
woman's  voice  or  to  roar  you  like  a  lion.  His  forthputting 
is  exactly  what  might  be  expected  from  a  man  of  his  station, 
accustomed  to  be  looked  up  to  by  his  fellows.  "  Humility," 
said  old  Bishop  Griswold  of  Massachusetts,  "is  a  virtue  I 
have  seen  occasionally  among  the  rich,  but  have  never 
observed  among  the  poor." 

Then,  too,  it  is  delicious  to  see  how  Quince  is  driven  to 
flatter  Bottom ;  and  who,  in  private  theatricals,  does  not 
know  the  pother  often  made  by  some  fussy  performer  about 
Ats  beard,  or  Aer  lace,  or  some  point  that  is  of  compara- 
tively no  importance  whatever  to  the  other  actors  ? 

Quince.     You,  Nick  Bottom,  are  set  down  for  Pyramus. 
'     Bottom.     What  is  Pyramus  .?  —  a  lover,  or  a  tyrant  ? 

Quince.    A  lover,  that  kills  himself  most  gallantly  for  love. 

Bottom.  That  will  ask  some  tears  in  the  true  performing  of  it:  If 
I  do  it  let  the  audience  look  to  their  eyes.  I  will  move  storms.  I  will 
condole  in  some  measure.  .  .  .  Yet  my  chief  humor  is  for  a  tyrant. 
I  could  play  Ercles  rarely ;  or  a  part  to  tear  a  cat  in,  to  make  all 
split.  .  .  . 

Quince.     No,  no ;  you  must  play  Pyramus,  and.  Flute,  you  Thisbe. 

Bottom.  An  I  may  hide  my  face,  let  me  play  Thisbe  too.  I'  11 
speak  in  a  monstrous  little  voice. 

Quitice.  No,  no ;  you  viust  play  Pyramus.  .  .  .  Snug,  the  joiner, 
you,  the  lion's  part ;  myself,  Thisbe's  father  ;  and  now,  I  hope,  here 
is  a  play  fitted. 

Snug.  Have  you  the  lion's  part  written  ?  If  it  be,  give  it  me, 
for  I  am  slow  of  study. 

Quince.     You  may  do  it  extempore,  for  it  is  nothing  but  roaring. 

Bottom.  Let  me  play  the  lion  too.  I  will  roar  that  it  will  do  any 
man's  heart  good  to  hear  me.  I  will  roar  that  I  will  make  the  duke 
say.  Let  him  roar  again. 


I02  Midsummer  Night 's  Dream, 

Qui7ice.  An  you  should  do  it  too  terribly,  you  would  fright  the 
duchess  and  the  ladies,  that  they  would  shriek ;  and  that  were  enough 
to  hang  us  all. 

Bottom.  I  grant  you,  friends,  that  if  you  should  fright  the  ladies 
out  of  their  wits,  they  would  have  no  more  discretion  but  to  hang  us ; 
but  I  will  aggravate  my  voice  so  that  I  will  roar  you  as  gently  as  any 
sucking  dove ;  I  will  roar  you  an  't  were  any  nightingale. 

Quince.  You  can  play  no  part  but  Pyramus,  for  Pyramus  is  a 
sweet-faced  man  ;  a  proper  man  as  one  shall  see  in  a  summer's  day  ; 
a  most  lovely  gentlemanlike  man ;  therefore  yott  must  needs  play 
Pyramus. 

Bottom.  Well,  I  will  undertake  it.  What  beard  were  I  best  to 
play  it  in  ?  .  .  . 

Quince.  Well,  masters,  here  are  your  parts,  and  I  am  to  entreat 
you,  request  you,  and  desire  you  to  con  them  over,  and  meet  me  in 
the  palace  wood,  a  mile  without  the  town,  by  moonlight ;  there  will 
we  rehearse.  ...  At  the  Duke's  Oak  we  meet. 

Act  it.     Scene  i. 

To  the  first  scene  of  this  second  act,  Hazlitt's  words  are 
especially  appropriate.  He  says  :  "  The  reading  of  this  play 
is  like  wandering  in  a  grove  by  moonlight ;  the  descriptions 
breathe  a  sweetness  like  odors  thrown  from  beds  of  flowers." 
Observe,  too,  the  sweetness  and  harmony  of  the  words  of 
the  fairy's  song.  All  Shakspeare's  songs  have  music  in  their 
words,  and  were  probably  intended  to  be  sung  with  very 
little  orchestral  accompaniment.  Many  years  ago,  in  Lon- 
don, I  used  sometimes  to  attend  a  madrigal  club,  where 
about  twenty  ladies  and  gentlemen  met  once  a  week  to  sing 
madrigals  and  catches,  and  these  old  Shakspeare  songs,  to 
music  of  the  days  of  Queen  Elizabeth.  They  sang  without 
accompaniment,  and  the  effect  was  charming. 

Over  hill,  over  dale. 

Thorough  bush,  thorough  brier, 
Over  park,  over  pale. 

Thorough  flood,  thorough  fire, 


Midsummer  Night's  Dream.  103 

I  do  wander  everywhere, 

Swifter  than  the  moones  sphere  ; 

And  I  serve  the  fairy  queen, 

To  dew  her  orbs  upon  the  green ; 

The  cowslips  tall  her  pensioners  be, 

In  their  gold  cups  spots  you  see  ; 

These  be  rubies,  fairy  favors ; 

In  those  speckles  live  their  savors ; 

I  must  go  seek  some  dewdrops  here, 

And  hang  a  pearl  in  every  cowslip's  ear. 

Farewell,  thou  lob  of  spirits,  I  '11  be  gone  ; 

Our  queen  and  all  her  elves  come  here  anon. 

Before  leaving,  Puck  charges  the  fairy  to  keep  her  mistress 
from  the  sight  of  Oberon.  She  has  refused  perversely  to 
give  up  to  him  her  pretty  changeling  boy. 

And  now  they  never  meet,  in  grove  or  green. 
By  fountain  clear,  or  spangled  star-light  sheen, 
But  they  do  square,  that  all  their  elves  do  fear,  — 
Creep  into  acorn  cups,  and  hide  them  there. 

"  If,"  says  Gervinus,  "  Shakspeare  wished  us  to  con- 
ceive of  fairies  as  personified  dreams,  he  carried  out  this 
object  in  wonderful  harmony,  both  as  regards  their  ac- 
tions and  their  condition.  Their  kingdom  is  placed  in 
the  aromatic,  flower-scented  Indies,  where  mortals  live  in 
a  half-dreamy  state.  From  thence  they  came,  *  following 
darkness,'  as  Puck  says,  '  like  a  dream.'  Airy,  and  swift, 
like  the  moon  they  circle  the  earth;  they  avoid  the  sun- 
light, without  fearing  it,  and  seek  the  darkness;  they  love 
the  moon,  and  dance  in  'her  beams ;  and  above  all,  they 
delight  in  the  dusk  and  twilight,  —  the  very  season  for 
dreams."  Dreams  and  moonlight  are  words  that  recur 
again  and  again,  on  every  page  of  the  "  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream." 


I04  Midsummer  Night'' s  Dream, 

"  The  fairy  people,  lords  of  a  kingdom  in  which  all  ideas 
come  only  through  the  senses,  as  in  dreams,  lead  a  luxu- 
rious, merry  life;  the  secrets  of  nature,  and  the  powers 
of  flowers  and  herbs  are  confided  to  them.  .  .  .  Their  life 
~foi  sense  and  nature  is  seasoned  by  the  power  of  fancy, 
and  by  desires  after  all  that  is  most  choice,  most  beautiful, 
most  agreeable.  They  harmonize  with  nightingales  and 
butterflies;  they  wage  war  with  all  ugly  creatures,  —  with 
hedgehogs,  spiders,  and  bats.  Dancing,  play,  and  song 
are  their  greatest  pleasures ;  they  steal  lovely  children,  and 
substitute  changehngs ;  they  torment  decrepit  old  age, 
toothless  gossips,  elderly  aunts,  and  the  awkward  per- 
formers of  *  Pyramus  and  Thisbe.'  "  Puck  is,  as  it  were, 
the  clown  among  these  dainty  creatures.  The  fairy  thus 
addresses  him  :  — 

Either  I  mistake  your  shape  and  making  quite, 
Or  else  you  are  that  shrewd  and  knavish  sprite 
Called  Robin  Goodfellow.     Are  you  not  he 
That  fright  the  maidens  of  the  villag'ry, 
Skim  milk,  and  sometimes  labor  in  the  quern, 
And  bootless  make  the  breathless  housewife  churn ; 
And  sometimes  make  the  beer  to  bear  no  balm ; 
Mislead  night-wanderers,  laughing  at  their  harm  ? 
Those  that  Hobgoblin  call  you,  and  sweet  Puck, 
You  do  their  work,  and  they  shall  have  good  luck  ; 
Are  you  not  he  ? 

Puck.  Thou  speak'st  aright ; 

I  am  that  merry  wanderer  of  the  night. 

And  then,  brimming  over  with  delight  at  the  recollection  of 
his  mischief,  he  proceeds  to  tell  divers  of  his  pranks  played 
in  farm-houses  on  old  women.  When  the  poor  old  aunt 
slips  off  her  stool,  and  cries  "  Tailor  !  "  it  is  because  she  finds 
herself  sitting  tailor-fashion  on  the  floor. 


Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  105 

Scene  2. 

The  fairy  wife  and  husband  having  met,  they  at  once  begin 
to  reproach  each  other.  Titania  starts  off  by  accusing 
Oberon  of  admiring  Hippolytaj  he  retorts  by  bringing  up 
her  admiration  for  Theseus.  Titania  answers  him  in  a 
lovely  speech  describing  the  terrible  floods  and  the  abnormal 
conditions  of  the  seasons  in  England,  in  1595. 

Then,  as  Titania  flits  away  with  her  train  of  fairies,  Oberon 
addresses  Puck  in  a  speech  which  is  believed  to  contain 
allusions  to  the  Virgin  Queen  Elizabeth,  and  to  the  glorious 
fete  given  her  at  Kenilworth,  by  her  lover,  the  Earl  of  Leices- 
ter, in  1575.  The  mermaid  on  the  dolphin's  back  in  the 
lake,  singing  dulcet  songs  to  welcome  Ehzabeth's  arrival  at  the 
Castle,  was  part  of  the  pageantry.  Till  Elizabeth  put  Essex 
to  death,  Shakspeare  loved  and  reverenced  her,  though  he 
never  addressed  to  her  the  fulsome  adulation  common 
among  courtiers  in  that  day.  He  was  summoned  to  act 
before  her  only  three  weeks  before  her  death,  but  though 
called  upon  repeatedly  by  brother  bards  to  sing  her  praises 
after  death,  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  lay  one  flower  of 
his  verse  upon  the  tomb  of  her  who  had  signed  the  death- 
warrant  of  the  friend,  kinsman,  and  general  of  Lord  South- 
ampton,— the  man  whom  of  all  others  Shakspeare  most  loved, 
and  most  delighted  to  honor.  Stratford  was  near  Kenil- 
worth, and  Shakspeare,  a  boy  of  nine,  may  well  have  sat 
upon  a  promontory  and  seen  what  Oberon  describes  here. 

Oberon.     My  gentle  Puck,  come  hither.    Thou  remembrest 
How  once  I  sat  upon  a  promontory, 
And  heard  a  mermaid  on  a  dolphin's  back, 
Uttering  such  dulcet  and  harmonious  breath, 
That  the  rude  sea  grew  civil  at  her  song. 


io6  Midsummer  Nighfs  Dream. 

And  certain  stars  shot  madly  from  their  spheres, 

To  hear  the  sea-maid's  music. 

That  very  time  I  saw,  —  but  thou  could'st  not,  — 

Flying  between  the  cold  moon  and  the  earth, 

Cupid  all  armed.     A  certain  aim  he  took 

At  a  fair  vestal  throned  by  the  West, 

And  loosed  his  love-shaft  smartly  from  his  bow, 

As  it  should  pierce  a  hundred  thousand  hearts. 

But  I  might  see  young  Cupid's  fiery  shaft 

Quenched  in  the  chaste  beams  of  the  watery  moon  j 

And  the  imperial  vot'ress  passed  on, 

In  maiden  meditation,  fancy-free. 

Yet  marked  I  where  the  bolt  of  Cupid  fell. 

It  fell  upon  a  little  western  flower,  — 

Before  milk-white,  now  purple  with  love's  wound,  — 

And  maidens  call  it  love-in-idleness. 

Fetch  me  that  flower,  —  the  herb  I  showed  thee  once. 

The  juice  of  it,  on  sleeping  eyelids  laid. 

Will  make  or  man  or  woman  madly  dote 

Upon  the  next  live  creature  that  is  seen. 

Fetch  me  this  herb ;  and  be  thou  here  again 

Ere  the  leviathan  can  swim  a  league. 

Puck.     I  '11  put  a  girdle  round  about  the  earth 
In  forty  minutes. 

As  Oberon  soliloquizes  on  the  trick  he  means  to  play  with 
pansy,  juice  (one  of  the  pansy's  many  names  is  love-in- 
idleness)  upon  perverse  Titania,  Demetrius  and  Helena  come 
upon  the  scene.  Demetrius  is  as  little  like  a  gentleman  in  his 
conduct  to  the  poor  girl  as  he  can  well  be.  He  is  harsh, 
rude,  cruel.  She  repels  us  by  the  want  of  self-respect  she 
shows,  and  her  lack  of  modesty.  With  this  want  of  mod- 
esty, even  Demetrius  reproaches  her,  —  a  lesson  out  of 
Shakspeare  to  any  girl  whom  any  young  man,  rightly  or 
wrongly,  supposes  to  be  "running  after  him."  And  yet 
Helena  can  theorize  well  enough  upon  this  subject.  Per- 
haps  her  own   sad  experience   had   taught   her  that  "we 


Midsummer  Night's  Dream.  107 

should  be  wooed,  and  were  not  ^  made  to  woo."  But  in 
the  very  next  breath  the  infatuated  girl  declares :  "  I  '11 
follow  thee  —  and  make  a  heaven  of  hell."  Somebody- 
has  said  that  to  spare  a  lover  the  pleasure  of  pursuit  is 
to  defraud  him  of  one  of  his  masculine  privileges ;  for  men 
were  meant  for  hunters. 

Oberon,  having  observed  this  scene,  takes  compassion 
upon  Helena,  and  Puck  entering  as  the  pair  disappear  deeper 
into  the  greenwood,  he  says  :  — 

I  know  a  bank  whereon  the  wild  thyme  blows, 

Where  oxlips  and  the  nodding  violet  grows, 

Quite  over-canopied  with  lush  woodbine, 

With  sweet  musk-roses,  and  with  eglantine  ; 

There  sleeps  Titania  some  time  of  the  night, 

Lulled  in  those  flowers  with  dances  and  delight, 

And  there  the  snake  throws  her  enamelled  skin, 

Robe  wide  enough  to  wrap  a  fairy  in. 

And  with  the  juice  of  this  I'll  streak  her  eyes 

And  make  her  full  of  hateful  fantasies. 

Take  thou  some  of  it,  and  seek  through  this  grove. 

A  sweet  Athenian  lady  is  in  love 

With  a  disdainful  youth  ;  anoint  his  eyes, 

But  do  it  when  the  next  thing  he  espies 

May  be  the  lady.     Thou  shalt  know  the  man 

By  the  Athenian  garments  he  has  on. 

Effect  it  with  some  care,  that  he  may  prove 

More  fond  on  her  than  she  upon  her  love. 

Scene  3. 

This  is  a  most  charming  fairy  scene  of  dance  and  music. 

Titania.     Come,  now  a  roundel  and  a  fairy  song ! 
Then  for  the  third  part  of  a  minute,  hence  ; 
Some,  to  kill  cankers  in  the  musk-rose  buds, 
Some,  war  with  rear-mice  for  their  leathern  wings, 
To  make  my  small  elves  coats  ;  and  some,  keep  back 


io8  Midsummer  Night's  Dream, 

The  clamorous  owl  that  nightly  hoots  and  wonders 
At  our  quaint  spirits.     Sing  me  now  to  sleep. 

Song. 
You  spotted  snakes  with  double  tongue, 

Thorny  hedge-hog,  be  not  seen  ; 
Newts  and  blind  worms,  do  no  wrong  j 

Come  not  near  our  fairy  queen. 
Chorus.     Philomel,  with  melody, 

Sing  in  our  sweet  lullaby; 
Lulla,  lulla,  lullaby  ;  lulla,  lulla,  lullaby; 
Never  harm,  nor  spell,  nor  charm, 
Come  our  lovely  lady  nigh ; 
So  good-night,  with  lullaby. 
\Exeunt  fairies.     Titania  sleeps.    Enter  Oberon.   Squeezes  the  flower 
on  Titania* s  eyelids^ 
What  thou  seest  when  thou  dost  wake, 
Do  it  for  thy  true  love  take  ; 
Love  and  languish  for  his  sake. 
Be  it  ounce,  or  cat,  or  bear, 
Pard,  or  boar  with  bristled  hair. 
In  thine  eye  that  shall  appear 
When  thou  wak'st,  it  is  thy  dear. 
Wake  when  some  vile  thing  is  near. 

Next,  Lysander  and  Hermia,  having  lost  their  way  in  the 
dark,  wander  in  this  direction.  They  contrast  most  favor- 
ably with  Demetrius  and  Helena.  Lysander  is  a  gentleman 
by  nature,  and  Hermia  is  charming  in  her  tenderness,  and 
trust,  and  modesty.  Sleeping  upon  a  bank  at  some  distance 
apart,  Puck  finds  them,  and  with  a  speech  which  is  a  song, 
drops  the  juice  of  enchantment  into  Lysander's  eyes.  No 
sooner  is  this  done  than  Demetrius  and  Helena  come  upon 
the  scene.  Demetrius  succeeds  in  shaking  off  Helena,  who 
alone,  jealous  of  Hermia,  and  afraid  of  wild  beasts,  suddenly 
sees  Lysander  sleeping.  He  wakes  as  she  bends  over  him  ; 
the  charm  works,  and  he  begins  to  make  violent  love  to  her- 


Midsummer  Night's  Dream.  109 

She  deems  it  cruel  mockery,  and  runs  away.  Lysander,  pre- 
paring to  pursue  her,  takes  leave  of  sleeping  Hermia  with 
words  that  utter  a  truth  well  known  in  our  own  day,  but  not 
generally  acknowledged,  we  should  think,  in  Shakspeare's,  — 
namely,  that  the  bitterest  opponents  of  any  opinion  are  those 
who  have  ceased  to  believe  it. 

Hermia,  sleep  thou  there  ; 
And  never  may'st  thou  come  Lysander  near. 
For,  as  a  surfeit  of  the  sweetest  things 
The  deepest  loathing  to  the  stomach  brings, 
Or  as  the  heresies  that  men  do  leave 
Are  hated  most  of  those  they  did  deceive, 
So  thou,  my  surfeit  and  my  heresy, 
Of  all  be  hated,  —  but  the  most  of  me  ! 

Soon  after,  Hermia  wakes  in  sudden  fright,  having  had  an 
evil  dream,  and  calls  upon  Lysander.  No  Lysander  answers. 
He  is  gone,  —  he  must  be  dead  !  Her  terrors  are  very 
pathetic,  very  touching.     She  never  dreams  of  doubting  him. 

Lysander!     What,  removed  ?    Lysander!    lord! 
What,  out  of  hearing  ?  — gone  ? —  no  sound  ?  no  word  ? 
Alack,  where  are  you  ?     Speak,  an  if  you  hear ; 
Speak,  of  all  loves.     I  swoon  almost  with  fear. 
No  !  then  I  well  perceive  you  are  not  nigh  ; 
Either  death  or  you  I  '11  find  immediately. 

Act   in.     Scetie  i. 

In  this  scene  we  have  Titania  lying  asleep  beside  the 
Duke's  Oak,  the  meeting-place  decided  on  by  the  players 
for  their  rehearsal.  Again  let  me  remark  how  much  of  sleep 
there  is  throughout  this  "  Dream." 

The  players  arrive,  all  true  to  their  appointments.  Bottom, 
having  thought  the  matter  over,  is  ready  with  a  new  device, 
that  may  enable  him  to  monopolize  another  part  in  the  per- 


no  Midsummer  Night's  Dream, 

formance.  He  wants  to  be  Prologue.  Again  he  insists  on 
making  further  suggestions  about  the  Hon.  Poor  Quince, 
willing  so  far  as  he  can  to  keep  everybody  in  good  humor, 
and  anxious  above  everything  to  have  the  play  go  on,  at 
once  accepts  Bottom's  suggestions,  in  order  that  he  may 
bring  forward  his  own  difficulties.  How  about  moonshine  ? 
How  about  the  wall  ?  Bottom  is  all  ready  with  suggestions. 
Quince  thinks  moonshine  might  be  represented  by  a  man 
with  a  thombush  and  a  lantern.  Cain  with  his  thornbush 
and  his  lantern  figures  as  the  man  in  the  moon  in  Dante's 
Paradiso.  Then  the  wall?  Bottom  again  suggests  how  the 
wall  may  be  represented.  Quince  again  is  acquiescent,  ad- 
miring Bottom  as  cock  of  the  walk  among  his  fellows,  and 
being  anxious  to  get  his  players  to  their  work  without  any 
more  discussion. 

Snug.     You  never  can  bring  in  a  wall.     What  say  you,  Bottom  ? 

Bottom.  Some  man  or  other  must  present  wall ;  and  let  him  have 
some  plaster,  or  some  loam,  or  some  rough-cast  about  him  to  signify 
wall.  Or  let  him  hold  his  fingers  thus,  and  through  that  cranny  let 
Pyramus  and  Thisbe  whisper. 

Quince.  If  that  may  be,  then  all  is  well.  Come,  sit  down,  every 
mother's  son,  and  rehearse  your  parts.  Pyramus,  you  begin.  When 
you  have  spoken  your  speech,  enter  into  that  brake  ;  and  so  every  one 
according  to  his  cue. 

Then  the  rehearsal  begins ;  Puck,  entering,  lingers  in  the 
shadows  of  the  Duke's  Oak  as  a  spectator.  When,  after 
some  difficulty,  Bottom  gets  through  his  first  speech,  he 
retires  into  the  covert,  where  immediately  Puck  pops  over 
him  an  ass's  head. 

One  reason  why  the  "  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  "  must 
be  always  more  charming  to  read  than  it  can  be  to  see,  is 
that  in  acting,  its  graceful  fantasies  have  to  be  reduced  to 


Midsummer  Night  'i*  Dream,  1 1 1 

materialism.  Flesh-and-blood  ballet-girls  are  poor  repre- 
sentatives of  elves  who  dined  on  honey-bags,  crept  into 
snake-skins,  and  made  doublets  out  of  bats'  wings ;  and 
whereas  this  head  of  Bottom's  was  doubtless  a  magical 
contrivance,  we  are  forced  to  represent  it  by  a  donkey's 
head.  "No  doubt,"  says  Maginn,  "it  had  expressions  of 
mirth  and  tenderness  and  self-importance,  which  no  crea- 
tion of  hair  and  pasteboard  can  ever  set  forth." 

Bottom  is  wholly  unconscious  of  his  transformation,  and 
is  unspeakably  astonished  when,  coming  forth  from  the 
covert  on  hearing  his  next  cue,  all  the  party  shriek  and 
run  away  from  him.  He  believes  that  they  are  playing 
him  a  trick,  and  while  they  run  away  as  fast  as  their  legs 
can  carry  them,  he  walks  up  and  down,  singing,  that  they 
may  know  he  is  not  afraid  !  Luckily,  he  chooses  no  ribald 
song,  but  one  fitting  for  the  ear  of  a  fairy. 

The  ousel-cock,  so  black  of  hue, 
With  orange-tawny  bill, 
.  The  throstle  with  his  note  so  true, 
The  wren  with  little  quill.  .  .  • 

In  the  scene  that  follows  when  Titania  wakes  and  falls  in 
love  with  the  transmogrified  Bottom  "  we  feel  the  delicious 
incongruity  between  the  attentions  that  she  lavishes  upon 
the  hairy  boor,  and  his  real  nature.  Bottom  accepts  the 
situation  without  difficulty.  In  his  own  opinion  nothing 
can  be  too  good  for  him.  He  enters  into  it  all  as  he 
might  have  done  in  a  dream."  Cobwebs  are  still  applied 
in  country  places  to  cut  fingers.  Their  threads  are  also 
used  in  telescopes  to  mark  out  distances  between  the  stars. 
A  squash  has  no  relation  to  our  vegetable;  it  was  old 
English  for  a  budding  pea. 


1 1 2  Midsummer  Night 's  Dream, 

Titania.     I  pray  thee,  gentle  mortal,  sing  again  ; 

Mine  ear  is  much  enamoured  of  thy  note, 

So  is  mine  eye  enthralled  to  thy  shape. 

And  thy  fair  virtues'  force  perforce  doth  move  me 

On  the  first  view  to  say  —  to  swear,  I  love  thee. 
Bottom.     Methinks,  mistress,  you  should  have  little  reason  for  that ; 
and  yet,  to  say  the  truth,  reason  and  love  keep  little  company  together 
now-a-days.     The  more  the  pity  that  some  honest  neighbors  will  not 
make  them  friends.  .  .  . 

Titania.     Thou  art  as  wise  as  thou  art  beautiful. 
Bottom.     Not  so  neither.     But  if  I  had  wit  enough  to  get  out  of 
this  wood  I  have  enough  to  serve  mine  own  turn. 

Titania.     Out  of  this  wood  do  not  desire  to  go  ; 

Thou  shalt  remain  here  whether  thou  wilt  or  no. 

I  am  a  spirit  of  no  common  rate, 

The  summer  still  doth  tend  upon  my  state, 

And  I  do  love  thee.     Therefore  go  with  me. 

I  *11  give  thee  fairies  to  attend  on  thee, 

And  they  shall  fetch  thee  jewels  from  the  deep. 

And  sing  while  thou  on  pressed  flowers  dost  sleep, 

And  I  will  purge  thy  mortal  grossness  so 

That  thou  shalt  like  an  airy  spirit  go. 

Peas-blossom  !  Cobweb  !  Moth  !  and  Mustard-seed  I 

Be  kind  and  courteous  to  this  gentleman  ; 

Hop  in  his  walks,  and  gambol  in  his  eyes, 

Feed  him  with  apricocks  and  dewberries, 

With  purple  grapes,  green  figs,  and  mulberries ; 

The  honey-bags  steal  from  the  humble-bees, 

And  for  night-tapers  crop  their  waxen  thighs, 

And  light  them  at  the  fiery  glow-worm's  eyes, 

To  have  my  love  to  bed  and  to  arise. 

And  pluck  the  wings  from  painted  butterflies, 

To  fan  the  moonbeams  from  his  sleeping  eyes, 

Nod  to  him,  elves,  and  do  him  courtesies. 

Then,  as  the  fairies  do  him  reverence,  Bottom  inquires 

their  names. 

Bottom.  I  shall  desire  of  you  more  acquaintance,  Master  Cobweb. 
If  I  cut  my  finger  I  shall  make  bold  with  you.  Your  name,  honest 
gentleman  ? 


Midsummer  Night 's  Dream,  113 

Peas-blossom.     Peas-blossom. 

Bottom.  I  pray  you  commend  me  to  Mistress  Squash,  your  mother, 
and  to  Master  Peascod,  your  father.  Good  Master  Peas-blossom,  I 
shall  desire  you  of  more  acquaintance,  too.  Your  name,  I  beseech 
you,  sir  ? 

Mustard-seed.     Mustard-seed. 

Bottom.  Good  Master  Mustard-seed,  I  know  your  patience  well. 
That  same  cowardly,  giant-like  ox-beef  hath  devoured  many  a  gen- 
tleman of  your  house.  I  promise  you,  your  kindred  have  made  my 
eyes  water  ere  now.  I  desire  your  more  acquaintance,  good  Master 
Mustard-seed. 

Titania.  Come!  wait  upon  him;  lead  him  to  my  bower.  .  .  .  Tie 
up  my  love's  tongue  ;  bring  him  silently. 

Scene  2. 

Puck  relates  to  Oberon  that  Titania  is  in  love  with  "  the 
shallowest  thick-skin "  of  the  mechanical  actors,  with  an 
ass's  head  upon  his  shoulders ;  that  his  companions  are 
scampering  through  bushes  and  briers  (Puck's  elfin  nature 
enjoys  the  mischief  he  has  created)  ;  and  that  he  has  also 
put  juice  into  the  eyes  of  the  Athenian. 

Then  come  in  Demetrius  and  Hermia.  She  is  accusing 
him  of  having  murdered  her  missing  Lysander.  The  scene 
on  Hermia's  part,  —  her  alternate  reproaching  and  pleading, 
—  is  very  pretty.  Demetrius  behaves  with  selfish  brutality ; 
but  his  reflection  that  — 

Sorrow's  heaviness  doth  heavier  grow 

For  debt  that  bankrupt  sleep  doth  sorrow  owe, 

is  one  that  comes  so  home  to  our  personal  experience  of 
insomnia  that  I  am  surprised  it  is  not  more  often  quoted. 
When  Demetrius,  having  chased  away  Hermia,  lies  down 
and  sleeps,  Oberon  reproaches  Puck  for  his  mistake,  and 
sends  him  off  to  lure  thither  Helena.  Puck  is  gone  but  a 
moment,  and  then  re-enters,  singing,  with  true  elfin  malice,  — 

8 


114  Midsummer  Night's  Dream, 

Captain  of  our  fairy  band, 

Helena  is  here  at  hand  ; 

And  the  youth  mistook  by  me, 

Pleading  for  a  lover's  fee. 

Shall  we  their  fond  pageant  see  ? 

Lord !  what  fools  these  mortals  be  ! 

Oberon.     Stand  aside  ;  the  noise  they  make 
Will  cause  Demetrius  to  awake. 

Puck.     Then  will  two  at  once  woo  one  ; 
That  must  needs  be  sport  alone. 
And  those  things  do  best  please  me 
That  befall  prepostrously. 

Here  enter  Lysaiider  and  Helena.  He  is  endeavoring  to 
persuade  her  of  the  reality  of  his  passion ;  she  is  not  to  be 
persuaded,  but  treats  him  throughout  the  scene  with  petulant 
derision.  Her  jealous  hatred  of  Hermia  peeps  through  all 
she  says  to  him.  The  scene  is  in  two  six-lined  verses,  a 
metre  unusual  in  a  play.  Then  Demetrius  awakening  sees 
Helena,  loves  her,  and  urges  his  passion.  Oberon  and  Puck 
stand  by  invisible,  enjoying  the  perplexities  they  have 
created. 

Helena's  protest  against  the  way  she  supposes  herself 
to  be  now  treated  is  the  best  thing  we  have  yet  had 
from  her. 

Helena.     O  spite !  O  hell  !     I  see  you  are  all  bent 
To  set  against  me  for  your  merriment. 
If  you  were  civil,  and  knew  courtesy, 
You  would  not  do  me  so  much  injury. 
Can  you  not  hate  me,  —  as  I  know  you  do,  --^ 

at  you  must  join  in  souls  to  mock  me  too  ? 
loxx.  were  men  —  as  men  you  are  in  showj 
u  would  not  use  a  gentle  lady  so. 
vow,  to  swear,  to  superpraise  my  parts, 
When  I  am  sure  you  hate  me  in  your  hearts. 
You  both  are  rivals,  and  love  Hermia; 


Midsummer  Night  j  Dream.  115 

And  now  both  rivals  to  mock  Helena,  — 

A  trim  exploit,  a  manly  enterprise, 

To  conjure  tears  up  in  a  poor  maid's  eyes 

With  your  derision  !     None  of  noble  sort 

Would  so  offend  a  virgin,  and  extort 

A  poor  soul's  patience,  all  to  make  you  sport! 

As  each  rival  is  protesting  that  he  renounces  Hermia,  that 
forsaken  damsel  enters,  guided  thither  by  the  voice  of  her 
Lysander.  She  cannot  believe  her  ears  when  Lysander  gives 
up  all  claim  to  her  in  the  presence  of  Helena,  who,  too  jeal- 
ous to  admit  any  virtue  in  her  rival,  accuses  her  of  being  in 
the  conspiracy.  The  speech  in  which  she  reproaches  her  late 
friend  is  very  celebrated  :  — 

Injurious  Hermia  !  most  ungrateful  maid  I 

Have  you  conspired,  have  you  with  these  contrived 

To  bait  me  with  this  foul  derision  ? 

Is  all  the  counsel  that  we  two  have  shared, 

The  sisters'  vows,  the  hours  that  we  have  spent. 

When  we  have  chid  the  hasty-footed  time 

For  parting  us,  —  O,  and  is  all  forgot  ? 

All  school-days'  friendship,  childhood  innocence  ? 

We,  Hermia,  like  two  artificial  gods, 

Have  with  our  neelds  created  both  one  flower, 

Both  on  one  sampler,  sitting  on  one  cushion, 

Both  warbling  of  one  song,  both  in  one  key. 

As  if  our  hands,  our  sides,  voices,  and  minds 

Had  been  incorporate.     So  we  grew  together, 

Like  to  a  double  cherry,  seeming  parted, 

But  yet  a  union  in  partition, — 

Two  lovely  berries  moulded  on  one  stem  j 

So  with  two  seeming  bodies,  but  one  heart ; 

Two  of  the  first,  like  coats  in  heraldry 

Due  but  to  one,  and  crowned  with  one  crest. 

And  will  you  rend  our  ancient  love  asunder, 

To  join  with  men  in  scorning  your  poor  friend  ? 

It  is  not  friendly  ;  't  is  not  maidenly  ;  ■ 


ii6  Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 

Our  sex  as  well  as  I  may  chide  you  for  it, 
Though  I  alone  do  feel  the  injury. 

Hermia.     I  am  amazed  at  your  passionate  words  : 
I  scorn  you  not ;  it  seems  that  you  scorn  me. 

Helena.     Have  you  not  set  Lysander,  as  in  scorn, 
To  follow  me,  to  praise  my  eyes  and  face  ? 
And  made  your  other  love,  Demetrius, 
Who  e'en  but  now  did  spurn  me  with  his  foot. 
To  call  me  goddess,  nymph,  divine  and  rare. 
Precious,  celestial  ?     Wherefore  speaks  he  this 
To  her  he  hates  ?     And  wherefore  doth  Lysander 
Deny  your  love,  so  rich  within  his  soul. 
And  tender  me  forsooth,  affection, 
But  \yj  your  setting  on  —  \i^  your  consent  ? 
What  though  I  be  not  so  in  grace  as  you. 
So  hung  upon  with  love,  so  fortunate. 
But  miserable  most,  to  love  unloved  ? 
This  you  should  pity  rather  than  despise. 

Hermia.     I  understand  not  what  you  mean  by  this. 

Helena.     Ay,  do  persever,  counterfeit  sad  looks, 
Make  mows  upon  me  when  I  turn  my  back, 
Wink  at  each  other,  hold  the  sweet  jest  up  ; 
This  sport  well  carried  shall  be  chronicled. 
If  you  have  any  pity,  grace,  or  manners, 
You  would  not  make  me  such  an  argument. 
But  fare  ye  well.     'T  is  partly  mine  own  fault. 
Which  death  or  absence  soon  shall  remedy. 

Helena  becomes  shrewish  in  her  excitement.  Hermia 
cannot  think  Lysander's  love  for  Helena  is  anything  but  a 
cruel  jest,  and  turns  to  him  with  an  entreaty :  "  Sweet,  do 
not  scorn  her  so."  Then  the  two  rivals,  Lysander  and  De- 
metrius, quarrel  with  each  other.  Hermia,  growing  alarmed, 
clings  to  Lysander,  who,  in  his  passion  and  excitement, 
speaks  to  her  the  crudest  words :  — 

Hands  off,  thou  cat,  thou  burr  !     Vile  thing  !  let  loose. 
Or  I  will  shake  thee  from  me  as  a  serpent  I 


Midsummer  Night 's  Dream,  117 

She  loosens  her  hold,  and  then  Demetrius  taunts  him  with 
not  having  repulsed  her  with  sufficient  ferocity.  "  What !  " 
cries  Lysander,  "  should  I  hurt  her  ?  —  strike  her  ?  —  kill  her 
dead?    Although  I  hate  her,  I  '11  not  harm  her  so." 

Then  Hermia  begins  to  believe  that  something  is  wrong. 
The  scene  is  piteous.  Puck,  who  had  no  human  sympathy, 
may  have  enjoyed  it,  but  there  is  not  much  fun  in  it  to  us 
mortals. 

Hermia.     Hate  me  ?    "Wherefore  ?    O  me !  what  news,  my  love  ? 
Am  I  not  Hermia  ?    Are  not  you  Lysander  ? 
I  am  as  fair  now  as  I  was  erewhile. 
Since  night  you  loved  me ;  yet  since  night  you  left  me. 
Why,  then,  you  left  me  —  O,  the  gods  forbid  1  — 
In  earnest,  shall  I  say  ? 

Lysander.     Ay,  by  my  life  ! 
And  never  did  desire  to  see  thee  more. 
Therefore  be  out  of  hope,  of  question,  doubt. 
Be  certain  —  nothing  truer  ;  't  is  no  jest 
That  I  do  hate  thee,  and  love  Helena. 

Hermia  \to  Helena].    O  me  !  you  juggler  !  you  canker-blossom! 
You  thief  of  love  !     What !  have  you  come  by  night 
And  stolen  my  love's  heart  from  him  ? 

Helena.  Fine,  i'  faith  ! 

Have  you  no  modesty  —  no  maiden  shame  — 
No  touch  of  bashfulness  ?     What !  will  you  tear 
Impatient  answers  from  my  gentle  tongue  ? 
Fie  I  Fie  !     You  counterfeit,  you  puppet  you ! 

Hermia.     Puppet  ?    Why  so  >.    Ay,  that  way  goes  the  game  ? 

\To  Demetrius?^    Now  I  perceive  that  she  hath  made  compare 
Between  our  statures ;  she  hath  urged  her  height; 
And  with  her  personage  —  her  tall  personage, 
Her  height,  forsooth  —  she  hath  prevailed  with  him. 

[  To  Helena-I     And  are  you  grown  so  high  in  his  esteem 
Because  I  am  so  dwarfish  and  so  low  ? 
How  low  am  I  ?  thou  painted  Maypole,  speak  I 
How  low  am  I .''     I  am  not  yet  so  low 
But  that  my  nails  can  reach  unto  thine  eyes. 


ii8  Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 

Helena.     I  pray  you,  though  you  mock  me,  gentlemen, 
Let  her  not  hurt  me.     I  was  never  curst ; 
I  have  no  gift  at  all  in  shrewishness ; 
I  am  a  right  maid  for  my  cowardice  ; 
Let  her  not  strike  me.     You  perhaps  may  think 
Because  she  's  something  lower  than  myself 
That  I  can  match  her. 

Hermia.  Lower  1     Hark  again  ! 

Helena.     Good  Hermia,  do  not  be  so  bitter  with  me. 
I  evermore  did  love  you,  Hermia ; 
Did  ever  keep  your  counsels,  never  wronged  you. 
Save  that  in  love  unto  Demetrius 
I  told  him  of  your  stealth  into  this  wood. 
He  followed  you.     For  love  I  followed  him. 
But  he  hath  chid  me  hence,  and  threatened  me 
To  strike  me,  spurn  me,  nay,  to  kill  me  too; 
And  now,  so  you  will  let  me  quiet  go 
To  Athens,  I  will  bear  my  folly  back 
And  follow  you  no  further.     Let  me  go. 
You  see  how  simple  and  how  fond  I  am. 

Hermia.     Why,  get  you  gone  !     Who  is 't  that  hinders  you  ? 

The  girls  endeavor  to  fly  at  each  other,  but  are  held  back 
by  the  men,  the  tall  Helena  proving  herself  an  arrant  coward. 
Demetrius  challenges  Lysander  for  taking  the  part  of  Helena, 
and  all  is  wild  confusion.  It  gives  me  a  bewildering  conception 
of  Shakspeare's  mighty  power  of  creation  when  I  think  that 
the  same  hand  that  made  Portia,  Imogen,  Perdita,  and  Mi- 
randa, fashioned  these  two  commonplace  excitable  girls.  Yet, 
ill  as  they  behave,  neither  quite  loses  our  sympathy,  and  un- 
ladylike as  much  of  their  conduct  is,  we  do  not  lose  all  sense 
of  their  being  ladies.  Very  litde  comment,  so  far  as  I  know, 
has  been  bestowed  on  Hermia  and  Helena.  To  me  the  skill 
that  wove  their  flimsiness  seems  wonderful.  Many  writers 
seem  to  look  on  Helena  as  the  most  wronged,  and  the  most 
worthy;   in  which   estimate   of  their   characters   I   cannot 


Midsummer  Night's  Dream.  119 

myself  agree.  Helena  from  the  first  was  mean,  cowardly, 
treacherous,  and  lacking  in  modesty.  In  the  end,  Hermia, 
aggravated  and  excited,  turns  upon  her,  and  when  both  have 
lost  their  tempers  and  their  dignity  there  is  little  to  choose 
between  them. 

While  all  the  lovers  rush  deeper  into  the  wood  Oberon 
desires  Puck  to  follow  them,  to  anoint  Lysander's  eyes 
with  the  magic  pansy  juice,  and  lead  them  back  to 
Athens. 

At  the  close  .of  the  conference  between  Puck  and  Oberon, 
we  are  made  to  see  the  difference  between  ghosts  and 
fairies.  The  former  must  troop  back  to  their  graves  at 
cock-crow,  but  fairies  may  tread  the  groves  till  dawn.  Puck 
says  :  — 

Yonder  shines  Aurora's  harbinger  ; 

At  whose  approach  ghosts,  wandering  here  and  there, 

Troop  home  to  churchyards ;  damned  spirits  all, 

That  in  cross-ways  and  floods  have  burial, 

Already  to  their  wormy  beds  have  gone  ; 

For  fear  lest  day  should  look  their  shames  upon, 

TheyVillingly  themselves  exile  from  light. 

And  must  for  aye  consort  with  black-browed  night. 

Oberon.     But  we  are  spirits  of  another  sort  \ 
I,  with  the  morning's  love  have  oft  made  sport, 
And  like  a  forester  the  groves  may  tread, 
E'en  till  the  eastern  gate,  all  fiery  red, 
Opening  on  Neptune  with  fair  blessed  beams, 
Turns  into  yellow  gold  his  salt-green  streams. 

Puck,  having  succeeded  in  drawing  all  four  lovers  under 

the  Duke's  Oak,  and  putting  them  to   sleep,  applies   his 

remedy  for  the  imbroglio  to  Lysander's  eyes.     As  he  does  so 

he  sings  thus : 

On  the  ground 
Sleep  sound. 


I20  Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 

I  '11  apply 
To  your  eye, 
Gentle  lover,  remedy. 

When  thou  wak'st 

Thou  tak'st 

True  delight 

In  the  sight 
Of  thy  former  lady's  eye. 
And  the  country  proverb  known, 
That  every  man  shall  take  his  own. 
In  your  waking  shall  be  shown. 

Jack  shall  have  Jill, 

Naught  shall  go  ill. 
The  man  shall  have  his  mare  again,  and  all  shall  be  well. 

Act  IV.     Scene  i. 

This  act  opens  with  the  court  of  Titania,  who  is  enamoured 
of  her  Bottom.  Oberon  is  watching  them,  invisible.  Observe 
that  Titania's  infatuation  for  Bottom  is  all  purity.  It  is  the  wild- 
est folly,  but  fairy  nature  admits  no  thought  of  grosser  evil. 

Maginn  says  of  the  scene  that  follows  :  "  It  was  necessary 
for  the  drama  that  Shakspeare  should  introduce  among  his 
fairy  party  a  creature  of  earth's  mould ;  and  he  has  done  it 
so  as,  in  the  midst  of  his  mirth,  to  convey  a  picturesque  satire 
on  the  fortune  that  governs  the  world,  and  upon  those  passions 
which  elsewhere  he  had  with  agitating  pathos  to  depict.  As 
Romeo,  the  gentleman,  is  the  unlucky  man  of  Shakspeare,  so 
does  he  here  exhibit  [Bottgnij^the  blockhead,  as  the  lucky 
man,  —  one  on  whom.  Fortune  showers  her  favors  beyond 
measure.  .  .  .  He,  the  most  unfitted  for  the  fairy  scene  beyond 
all  conceivable  personages,  makes  his  appearance,  not  as 
one  to  be  expelled  with  loathing  and  derision,  but  to  be 
instantly  accepted  as  the  chosen  lover  of  the  Queen  of  the 


Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  121 

Fairies.  Oberon,  angry  as  he  is  with  the  caprices  of  his 
queen,  did  not  anticipate  any  such  object  for  her  charmed 
affections.  He  did  not  dream  that  under  the  superintend- 
ence of  Puck — his  spirit  of  mischief — she  is  to  be  enam- 
oured of  the  head  of  an  ass,  surmounting  the  body  of  a 
weaver.  Bottom  is  an  angel  that  awakes  her  from  her 
flowery  bed ;  a  gentle  mortal,  whose  enchanting  note  wins 
her  ear,  while  his  beauteous  shape  enthralls  her  eye,  —  one 
who  is  as  wise  as  he  is  beautiful ;  one  for  whom  all  the  magic 
treasures  of  the  fairy  kingdom  are  to  be  with  surprising  pro- 
fusion dispensed.  For  him  she  gathers  whatever  wealth  and 
delicacies  the  Land  of  Faery  can  boast.  Her  most  airy 
spirits  are  ordered  to  be  kind  and  courteous  to  this  gentle- 
man, —  for  into  that  impossible  character  has  the  blindness 
of  her  love  transmuted  the  clumsy  and  conceited  clown.  Apri- 
cocks,  and  dewberries,  purple  grapes,  green  figs,  and  mul- 
berries are  to  feed  his  coarse  palate ;  the  thighs  of  bees, 
kindled  by  the  light  of  fiery  glow-worms,  are  to  light  him  to 
his  flower-decked  bed  j  wings,  plucked  from  painted  butter- 
flies are  to  fan  the  moon-beams  from  him  as  he  sleeps,  and 
in  the  very  desperation  of  her  intoxicating  passion  she  feels 
that  there  is  nothing  that  should  not  be  yielded  to  the  strange 
idol  of  her  soul.  Bottom,  during  the  time  he  attracts  the 
attentions  of  Titania,  never  for  a  moment  thinks  there  is 
anything  extraordinary  in  the  matter.  He  takes  the  love  of 
the  Queen  of  the  Fairies  as  a  thing  of  course ;  orders  about 
her  tiny  attendants  as  if  they  were  so  many  apprentices  at 
his  loom,  and  dwells  in  Fairyland  unobservant  of  its  won- 
ders, as  quiedy  as  if  he  were  still  in  his  workshop.  Theseus 
wpuld  have  bent  in  reverence  before  Titania :  great  is  the 
courage  and  self-possession  of  an  ass-head  !  " 


122  Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 

Titania,     Come,  sit  thee  down  upon  this  flowery  bank, 
While  I  thine  amiable  cheeks  do  coy, 
And  stick  musk-roses  in  thy  sleek  smooth  head, 
And  kiss  thy  fair  large  ears,  my  gentle  joy. 
Bottom.     Where  's  Monsieur  Cobweb  ?     Good  monsieur,  get  your 
weapons  in  your  hand,  and  kill  me  a  red-hipped  humble-bee  on  the 
top  of  a  thistle ;  and,  good  monsieur,  bring  me  the  honey-bag.     Do 
not  fret  yourself  too  much  in  the  action,  monsieur ;  and,  good  mon- 
sieur, have  a  care  the  honey-bag  break  not ;  I  would  be  loth  to  have 
you  overflown  with  a  honey-bag,  signor. 

And  then,  when  his  head  has  been  scratched,  —  for  his 
"face  feels  marvellous  hairy,"  —  and  when  he  has  divulged 
his  taste  in  music  by  a  desire  for  the  tongs  and  bones,  and 
his  appreciation  of  good  hving,  by  his  appetite  for  oats  and 
good  sweet  hay,  Titania,  perplexed  by  these  unwonted 
tastes,  answers  him  :  — 

I  have  a  venturous  fairy  that  shall  seek 
The  squirrel's  hoard,  and  fetch  for  thee  new  nuts. 
Bottom.     I  'd  rather  have  a  handful  or  two  of  dried  peas.     But  I 
pray  you,  let  none  of  your  people  stir  me ;  I  have  an  exposition  of 
sleep  come  on  me. 

Titania,     Sleep,  then,  and  I  will  wind  thee  in  my  arms.  .  .  . 
O  !  how  I  love  thee !     How  I  dote  on  thee  ! 

This  sight  moves  Oberon  to  pity  his  deluded  love,  whom 
his  charm  has  so  degraded,  —  the  more  readily,  no  doubt, 
because,  infatuated  with  this  new  caprice,  she  has  given 
up  to  him  the  changeling  boy.  He  bends  over  her  and 
touches  her  eyelids  with  his  disenchanting  herb.  Awaking 
she  exclaims :  — 

My  Oberon  !  what  visions  have  I  seen !    , 
Methought  I  was  enamoured  of  an  ass. 

Oberon.     There  lies  your  love. 

Titania.  How  came  these  things  to  pass  ? 


Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  123 

Again  and  again  we  may  remark  how  much  sleep  has  to 
do  wltlTthis  play.  Titania  even  believes  her  experience  has 
been  all  a  dream.  As  the  reconciled  fairy  husband  and  wife 
take  hands  in  the  delight  of  their  reunion  and  dance  around 
the  Duke's  Tree,  Hippolyta  and  Theseus,  early  afoot  for  the 
pleasures  of  the  chase,  come  on  the  scene.  Wondrous 
Shakspeare,  who  knows  everything,  gives  us  the  best  descrip- 
tion in  all  literature  of  the  baying  of  a  pack  of  hounds. 
Hippolyta  says  :  — 

I  was  with  Hercules  and  Cadmus  once, 
When  m  a  wood  of  Crete  they  bayed  the  bear 
With  hounds  of  Sparta :  never  did  I  hear 
Such  gallant  chiding ;  for  besides  the  groves, 
The  skies,  the  fountains,  every  region  near 
Seemed  all  one  mutual  cry.     I  never  heard 
So  musical  a  discord,  —  such  sweet  thunder. 

Theseus.     My  hounds  are  bred  out  of  the  Spartan  kind, 
So  flewed,  so  sanded ;  and  their  heads  are  hung 
With  ears  that  sweep  away  the  morning  dew. 
Crook-kneed,  and  dew-lapped  like  Thessalian  bulls, 
Slow  in  pursuit,  but  matched  in  mouth  like  bells 
Each  under  each.     A  cry  more  tuneable 
Was  never  hollaed  to,  nor  cheered  with  horn, 
In  Crete,  in  Sparta,  nor  in  Thessaly. 
Judge  when  you  hear. 

Lover  as  he  is,  he  does  not  like  this  Amazonian  lady 
should  praise  the  hounds  of  Hercules  at  the  expense  of  his 
own  kennel. 

The  lovers  sleeping  underneath  the  oak  are  roused  by  the 
horns  and  music  of  the  hunting-party ;  and  Demetrius  having 
declared  his  love  for  Helena,  Theseus  over-rules  the  parental 
authority  of  Egeus,  and  appoints  the  nuptials  of  both 
couples  —  Demetrius  with  Helena,  and  Hermia  with  Lysan- 
der  —  to  take  place  together  with  his  own.     To  the  lovers 


124  Midsummer  Night^s  Dream. 

likewise  the   adventures  of  the   night   seem  to  have  been 
a  dream. 

Meantime  in  Quince's  house  the  players  are  all  bewaiUng 
the  mysterious  absence  of  Bottom.  "  His  return  being  con- 
sidered hopeless,  the  production  of  the  play  has  been  given 
up  as  utterly  impossible."  But  suddenly  he  arrives  blowing 
and  domineering  after  his  own  fashion.  There  is  little  time 
for  talk.     He  says  hurriedly  :  — 

All  that  I  will  tell  you  is  that  the  Duke  hath  dined.  Get  your 
apparel  together ;  good  strings  to  your  beards,  new  ribbons  to  your 
pumps.  Meet  presently  at  the  palace  ;  every  man  look  o'er  his  part ; 
for  the  long  and  the  short  is,  our  play  is  preferred.  In  any  case,  let 
Thisby  have  clean  linen;  and  let  not  him  that  plays  the  lion  pare  his 
nails,  for  they  shall  hang  out  for  the  claws.  And,  most  dear  actors, 
eat  no  onions  nor  garlic,  for  we  are  to  utter  sweet  breath ;  and  I  do 
not  doubt  but  to  hear  them  say  it  is  a  sweet  comedy.  No  more  words  ; 
away !     Go  ;  away ! 

Act  v.     Scene  i. 

The  scene  is  a  hall  in  the  Duke's  palace.  The  words  that 
Theseus  addresses  to  Hippolyta  are  closely  associated  with 
Shakspeare  himself  in  every  mind :  — 

The  lunatic,  the  lover,  and  the  poet 

Are  of  imagination  all  compact. 

One  sees  more  devils  than  vast  hell  can  hold ; 

That  is  the  madman.     The  lover,  all  as  frantic, 

Sees  Helen's  beauty  in  a  brow  of  Egypt. 

The  poet's  eye,  in  a  fine  frenzy  rolling. 

Doth  glance  from  heaven  to  earth,  from  earth  to  heaven ; 

And,  as  imagination  bodies  forth 

The  forms  of  things  unknown,  the  poet's  pen 

Turns  them  to  shapes,  and  gives  to  airy  nothing 

A  local  habitation  and  a  name. 

I  never  thought  Milton  half  understood  or  appreciated 
Shakspeare  when  he  said  of  him,  — 


Midsummer  Nighfs  Dream,  125 

"  Sweetest  Shakspeare,  Fancy's  child, 
Warbles  his  native  wood-notes  wild ;  '* 

but   the  "  native   wood-notes "  are   heard   sweetest  in   the 
"  Midsummer  Night's  Dream." 

The  subjects  of  Duke  Theseus  offer  him  his  choice  of  four 
performances,  —  A  song  concerning  the  Battle  of  the  Centaurs ; 
a  procession  of  tipsy  Bacchanals ;  the  Muses  mourning  for 
the  death  of  learning ;  and  "  a  tedious,  brief  scene  of  young 
Pyramus  and  his  love  Thisbe ;  very  tragical  mirth."  This 
title  attracts  Theseus.     He  exclaims  :  — 

Merry  and  tragical  ?    Tedious  and  brief  ? 
That  is,  hot  ice,  and  wondrous  strange  snow. 

A  courtier  standing  by  says  he  has  seen  the  rehearsal 
of  it. 

In  all  the  play 
There  is  not  one  word  apt,  one  player  fitted. 
And  tragical,  my  lord,  it  is ; 
For  Pyramus  therein  doth  kill  himself. 
Which,  when  I  saw  rehearsed,  I  must  confess 
Made  mine  eyes  water ;  but  more  merry  tears 
The  passion  of  loud  laughter  never  shed. 

Theseus.     What  are  they  that  do  play  it  ? 

Courtier.     Hard-handed  men  that  work  in  Athens  here, 
Which  never  labored  in  their  minds  till  now; 
And  now  have  toiled  their  unbreathed  memories 
With  this  same  play,  again«^t  your  nuptial. 

Theseus.     And  we  will  hear  it. 

Courtier.  No,  my  noble  lord, 

It  is  not  for  you.     I  have  heard  it  over 
And  it  is  nothing  —  nothing  in  the  world; 
Unless  you  can  find  sport  in  their  intents, 
Extremely  stretched,  and  conned  with  cruel  pain 
To  do  you  service. 

Theseus.  I  will  hear  that  play, 

For  never  anything  can  be  amiss 
When  simpleness  and  duty  tender  it. 


126  Midsummer  Night's  Dream, 

Hippolyta,  who  has  no  taste  for  being  bored,  objects,  and 
Theseus  answers  her  :  — 

Our  sport  shall  be  to  take  what  they  mistake ; 
And  what  poor  duty  cannot  do, 
Noble  respect  takes  it  in  might,  not  merit. 
"Where  I  have  come,  great  clerks  have  purposed 
To  greet  me  with  premeditated  welcomes ; 
But  I  have  seen  them  shiver  and  look  pale. 
Make  periods  in  the  midst  of  sentences. 
Throttle  their  practised  accent  in  their  fears, 
And  in  conclusion  dumbly  have  broke  off. 
Not  paying  me  a  welcome.     Trust  me,  sweet. 
Out  of  this  silence  yet  I  picked  a  welcome ; 
And  in  the  modesty  of  fearful  duty 
I  read  as  much  as  from  the  rattling  tongue 
Of  saucy  and  audacious  eloquence. 
Love,  therefore,  and  tongue-tied  simplicity, 
In  least,  speak  most,  to  my  capacity. 

Theseus'  courteous  patience,  Hippolyta's  scarcely  sup- 
pressed weariness,  and  Bottom's  fearless  desire  of  putting 
himself  forward,  are  all  things  to  be  obser\'ed,  as  the  royal 
audience  comments  on  the  tragical- comical  play. 

Bottom  has  his  own  way,  and  speaks  the  prologue,  in- 
troducing all  the  characters,  except  Wall,  who  speaks  for 
himself. 

Then  Pyramus  and  Thisbe  converse  in  rhymed,  disjointed 
lines,  through  Wall's  fingers,  and  separate  to  meet  again 
at  "Ninny's  tomb." 

"  This,"  says  Hippolyta,  "  is  the  silliest  stuff  that  ever  I 
heard  ! " 

"  The  best  of  this  kind  are  but  shadows,"  replies  Theseus ; 
"  and  the  worst  are  no  worse,  if  imagination  mend  them." 

*'  It  must  be  your  imagination,  then,  and  not  theirs,"  she 
answers. 


Midsummer  Night's  Dream.  127 

"  The  meaning  of  the  Duke  is,  that  however  we  may  laugh 
at  the  silHness  of  Bottom  and  his  companions  in  their  ridic- 
ulous play,  they  do  but  labor  under  disadvantages  common 
to  all  dramatists.  '  All  are  but  dealers  in  shadowy  represen- 
tations of  life,'  and  their  great  aim  must  be  to  set  the  mind 
of  the  spectator  to  work  out  their  conceptions."  Shakspeare 
felt  this  deeply  for  himself,  and  alludes  to  it  at  length,  in  the 
opening  address  of  the  chorus  of  "  Henry  V."  Whether 
he  would  have  been  gratified  by  the  elaborate  settings  of  his 
plays  upon  the  modern  stage,  may  be  doubted.  Imagina- 
tion that  is  satisfied  to  repose  itself  on  pasteboard  will 
hardly  soar  into  the  highest  realms  of  fancy.  We  may  yet 
have  to  echo  the  grown  man's  complaint  in  Campbell's  poem 
of  "  The  Rainbow." 

The  play  ends  with  the  death  of  all  the  dramatis  per sonce^ 
—  Moonshine  and  the  Lion  alone  being  left  to  bury  the  dead. 
But  Bottom,  rising  to  his  feet  again,  has  nearly  the  last  word, 
setting  the  Duke  right  upon  some  point  in  the  tragedy  with 
unruffled  self-complacency. 

*'  Adieu,  Bottom,  the  weaver,"  cries  Maginn,  "  and  long 
may  you  go  onward  prospering  in  your  course  !  But  the 
prayer  is  needless,  for  you  carry  about  with  you  the  infallible 
talisman  of  success,  the  ass's  head  ! " 

The  revels  are  concluded  by  Puck's  song,  of  which  Cole- 
ridge says  :  "  It  is  Anacreon  himself,  in  perfectness,  pro- 
portion, grace,  and  spontaneity ; "  and  then  he  adds,  "  Oh, 
what  wealth,  what  wide  ranging,  and  yet  what  compression, 
and  condensation  of  Enghsh  fancy  !  These  thirty  lines  form 
a  speckless  diamond  ! " 

Now  the  hungry  lion  roars, 

And  the  wolf  behowls  the  moon  ; 


128  Midsummer  Night's  Drea^n. 

While  the  heavy  ploughman  snores, 

All  with  weary  task  fordone. 
Now  the  wasted  brands  do  glow, 

Whilst  the  scritch-owl,  scritching  loud, 
Puts  the  wretch  that  lies  in  woe 
In  remembrance  of  a  shroud. 
Now  it  is  the  time  of  night 

That  the  graves,  all  gaping  wide, 
Every  one  lets  out  his  sprite. 

In  the  church-way  paths  to  glide  ; 
And  we  fairies  that  do  run 

By  the  triple  Hecate's  team, 
From  the  presence  of  the  sun, 

Following  darkness  like  a  dream, 
Now  are  frolic;  not  a  mouse 
Shall  disturb  this  hallowed  house. 
I  am  sent  with  broom  before 
To  sweep  the  dust  behind  the  door. 

Obcron.     Through  this  house  give  glimmering  light, 
By  the  dead  and  drowsy  fire. 
Every  elf  and  fairy  sprite. 

Hop  as  light  as  bird  from  brier ; 
And  this  ditty,  after  me, 

Sing  and  dance  it  trippingly. 
Puck.     If  our  shadows  have  offended 
/^^^  Think  but  this,  and  all  is  mended,  —     ^ 
\  That  you  have  but  slumbered  here        \^ 

\  While  these  visions  did  appear  ; 

1         And  this  weak  and  idle  theme, 
\        No  more  yielding  than  a  dream, 
\       Gentles,  do  not  reprehend. 


TAMING    OF    THE    SHREW. 


TAMING   OF  THE   SHREW. 

"^T^AMING  OF  THE  SHREW  "  was  founded  on  an  old 
X  play  published  in  1594,  called  "The  Taming  of  a 
Shrew."  Probably,  Shakspeare,  while  theatrical  manager, 
wished  to  adapt  it  for  acting  at  his  theatre,  and  revised  and 
largely  rewrote  it ;  but  inasmuch  as  such  a  man  as  Shakspeare 
could  not  have  satisfied  himself  without  doing  his  best  in  any 
work  he  put  his  hand  to,  he  so  changed  and  improved  it  as  to 
make  a  very  ordinary  acting-play  into  what  we  now  find  it. 
He  took  other  people's  plots  and  characters,  and  breathed 
into  them  the  breath  of  life,  so  that  each  character  became  a 
living  soul.  In  the  course  of  his  labors  he  wove  into  the 
plot  some  scenes,  relating  to  Bianca's  marriage,  from  a  play 
by  Ariosto.  "Taming  of  the  Shrew"  is  a  play  within  a  play; 
and  the  Induction,  which  is  entirely  Shakspeare's  work,  though 
founded  on  the  old  comedy,  is  one  of  his  best  pieces  of  farce. 

The  idea  of  the  Induction  comes  probably  from  the  East, 
like  many  another  fairy  tale  brought  back  from  the  Crusades. 
It  is  the  same  as  that  in  the  charming  story  of  the  "  Sleeper 
Awakened,"  told  by  Queen  Scheherezade  to  her  fiction- 
loving  lord. 

The  characters  of  the  Induction  are  :  A  Lord ;  Chris- 
topher Sly,  a  drunken  tinker;  Hostess;  Page;  Players; 
Huntsmen;  etc. 


132  Taming  of  the  Skrezu. 

Scene  i.     Of  the  Induction. 

In  a  lonely  village  ale-house,  Sly,  in  his  cups,  gets  into  a 
quarrel  with  the  landlady.  Sly  is  a  braggart,  who  by  dint 
of  travel,  possibly  of  soldiering,  —  he  may  have  served  under 
Essex  at  Cadiz,  or  perhaps,  under  Drake,  against  the  Dons 
of  the  Spanish  Main,  —  has  picked  up  some  disjointed 
Spanish  words,  and  some  vague  notions  of  history.  So 
when  the  landlady  asks  payment  for  his  drink,  he  answers 
her :  "  Ye  'r  a  baggage.  The  Slys  are  no  rogues.  Look  in 
the  Chronicles.  We  came  in  with  Richard  Conqueror. 
Therefore,  paucas  pallabriSy  —  let  the  world  slide.  Sessa  !  " 
As  the  landlady  goes  off  to  fetch  the  local  guardians  of 
the  peace.  Sly  falls  asleep  on  the  floor.  Soon  after,  a 
lord  enters,  weary  with  hunting,  and  full  of  solicitude  about 
his  dogs. 

He  stumbles  over  Sly  in  his  drunken  sleep,  exclaiming : 

O,  monstrous  beast !     How  like  a  swine  he  lies  ! 
Grim  death,  how  foul  and  loathsome  is  thine  image ! 

Then  a  thought  strikes  him.  He  will  have  the  man 
put  in  his  own  state  bed,  and  when  he  wakes  make  him 
fancy  himself  a  nobleman.  Having  asked  his  head  hunts- 
man whether  such  a  joke  would  be  fair  fun,  he  goes  on 
thus :  — 

Then  take  him  up,  and  manage  well  the  jest. 
Carry  him  gently  to  my  fairest  chamber. 
And  hang  it  round  with  all  my  wanton  pictures  ; 
Balm  his  foul  head  with  warm  distilled  waters, 
And  burn  sweet  wood  to  make  the  lodging  sweet ; 
Procure  me  music,  ready  when  he  wakes 
To  make  a  dulcet  and  a  heavenly  sound ; 
And  if  he  chance  to  speak  be  ready  straight, 


Taming  of  the  Shrew.  133 

And,  with  a  low  submissive  reverence, 

Say,  What  is  it  your  honor  will  command? 

Let  one  attend  him  with  a  silver  basin 

Full  of  rose-water,  and  bestrewed  with  flowers  ; 

Another  bear  the  ewer,  the  third  a  diaper, 

And  say.  Will 't  please  your  lordship  cool  your  hands  ? 

Some  one  be  ready  with  a  costly  suit 

And  ask  him  what  apparel  he  will  wear  ; 

Another  tell  him  of  his  hounds  and  horse, 

And  that  his  lady  mourns  at  his  disease ; 

Persuade  him  that  he  hath  been  lunatic ; 

When  he  says  what  he  is,  say  that  he  dreams, 

For  he  is  nothing  but  a  mighty  lord. 

This  do,  and  do  it  kindly,  gentle  sirs, 

It  will  be  pastime  passing  excellent 

If  it  be  husbanded  with  modesty. 

I  Huntsman.     My  lord,  I  warrant  you  we  '11  play  our  part 
As  he  shall  think,  by  our  true  diligence. 
He  is  no  less  than  what  we  say  he  is. 

Lord.    Take  him  up  gently,  and  to  bed  with  him ; 
And  each  one  to  his  office  when  he  wakes. 

\Some  bear  out  Sly.     A  trumpet  sounds. 

The  lord  sends  at  once  to  see  what  is  the  meaning  of  the 
trumpet,  and  finds  it  announces  some  players,  who,  according 
to  an  English  custom  surviving  to  Mr.  Crummies'  and  Miss 
Snivellici's  day,  had  come  to  offer  their  services  to  perform 
before  the  chief  man  of  the  neighborhood. 

The  courtesy  of  the  lord  to  these  players  is  very  pleasing. 
He  remembers  several  of  them,  and  commends  their  former 
acting.  Then,  before  sending  them  to  the  buttery,  there  to 
receive  friendly  welcome,  he  says  :  — 

Well,  you  are  come  to  me  in  happy  time, 
The  rather  for  I  have  some  sport  in  hand 
Wherein  your  cunning  can  assist  me  much. 
There  is  a  lord  will  hear  you  play  to-night; 
But  I  am  doubtful  of  your  modesties, 


134  Taming  of  the  Shrew. 

Lest,  over-eyeing  of  his  odd  behavior 
(For  yet  his  honor  never  heard  a  play). 
You  break  into  some  merry  passion 
And  so  oflfend  him.     For  I  tell  you,  sirs, 
If  you  should  smile  he  grows  impatient. 

I  Player.    Fear  not,  my  lord.    We  can  contain  ourselves, 
Were  he  the  veriest  antic  in  the  world. 

Then,  the  players  being  dismissed  to  take  refreshment, 
the  lord  sends  orders  to  Bartholomew,  his  page,  to  dress  him- 
self as  a  lady.  He  is  to  bear  himself  towards  the  drunkard 
with  "  honorable  action,  such  as  he  hath  observed  in  noble 
ladies  unto  their  lords,  —  with  soft  low  tongue,  and  lowly 
courtesy,"  and  say  :  — 

What  is  't  your  honor  would  command 

Wherein  your  lady,  and  your  humble  wife 

May  show  her  duty,  and  make  known  her  love  ? 

And  then  with  kind  embracements,  tempting  kisses, 

And  with  declining  head  into  his  bosom, 

Bid  him  shed  tears ;  as  being  overjoyed 

To  see  her  noble  lord  restored  to  health, 

Who  for  twice  seven  years  hath  esteemed  him 

No  better  than  a  poor  and  loathsome  beggar ; 

And  if  the  boy  have  not  a  woman's  gift 

To  rain  a  shower  of  commanded  tears, 

An  onion  will  do  well  for  such  a  shift ; 

Which,  in  a  napkin  being  close  conveyed, 

Shall  in  despite  enforce  a  watery  eye. 

Then,  in  soliloquy,  — 

I  know  the  boy  will  well  usurp  the  grace, 

Voice,  gait,  and  action  of  a  gentlewoman  ; 

I  long  to  hear  him  call  the  drunkard,  husband. 

And  how  my  men  shall  stay  themselves  from  laughter 

When  they  do  homage  to  this  simple  peasant. 

I  '11  in  to  counsel  them.     Haply  my  presence 

May  well  abate  the  over-merry  spleen 

Which  otherwise  would  grow  into  extremes. 


Taming  of  the  Shrew.  135 

Scene  2.     Of  the  Induction. 

Accordingly,  Sly  is  next  exhibited  in  a  bed-chamber  in  the 
lord's  house,  in  a  rich  night-gown,  with  attendants ;  the  lord 
himself  (a  true  gentleman,  who  will  not  have  the  fun  carried 
too  far)  is  waiting  upon  him.  The  servants  succeed  in  per- 
suading Sly  that  he  has  been  out  of  his  mind,  or  in  a 
dream,  for  fourteen  years.  It  is  worth  remarking  that  the 
people  Sly  mentions,  John  Naps,  Cicely  Hacket  of  Wincot, 
Peter  Turf,  and  Henry  Pimpernell,  were  real  persons  whose 
names  have  been  preserved  in  Stratford  and  Wincot  records. 
Through  all  the  scene  Christopher  is  anxious  to  feel  assured 
of  his  identity  by  testing  it  by  his  relish  for  a  pot  of  Warwick- 
shire beer. 

It  seems  to  me  this  introduction  is  as  much  as  to  say  to 
the  audience,  the  reader,  or  posterity,  that  the  play  it  intro- 
duces does  not  "hold  the  mirror  up  to  nature;"  it  is  a 
farce. 

Act   I.     Scene  i. 

The  original  scene  of  the  play  was  laid  in  Greece ;  Shaks- 
peare  shifts  it  to  Padua.  The  stage  father,  the  stage  lover, 
the  stage  young  lady,  the  stage  confidant,  and  the  opening 
scene  are  all  conventional.  I  think  this  is  designed  as  a 
background  to  bring  out  Petruchio,  Katharine,  and  Grumio, 
who  are  the  furthest  remove  from  commonplace. 

Lucentio,  the  stage  hero,  is  a  young  man  on  his  travels, 
just  arrived  in  Padua.  He  converses  in  the  public  street 
with  his  servant  Tranio.  His  father,  Vincentio,  is  a  rich 
merchant  of  Pisa.  Tranio  —  a  sort  of  bear-leader,  and 
something  of  a  toady  —  urges  his  young  lord  to  study  only 
as  much  as  he  may  find  agreeable.     His  argument  consists 


1 36  Taming  of  the  Shrew. 

of  the  schoolboy's  logic.  Duty  is  a  pleasure;  therefore 
where  there  is  pleasure  none,  there  is  duty  none.  We  see 
from  Tranio's  first  speech  that  he  is  a  man  who  will  will- 
ingly help  his  master's  son  into  or  out  of  any  scrape  or 
folly. 

As  they  are  talking,  there  appear  Baptista,  a  rich  gen- 
tleman of  Padua,  his  two  daughters,  Katharine  and  Bianca, 
and  two  gentlemen,  —  Gremio,  an  elderly  man,  and  Hor- 
tensio. 

Old  Baptista  is  a  miserable  old  selfish  father ;  no  wonder 
he  bred  Katharine  to  scorn  him,  and  Bianca  to  deceive  him. 
He  is  talking  to  the  gentlemen,  who  are  both  suitors  for 
Bianca,  and,  —  without  a  thought  for  Bianca's  happiness  or 
Katharine's  honor,  but  solely  because  he  wants  to  get  rid 
of  a  troublesome  daughter,  —  he  refuses  them  Bianca,  and 
throws  Katharine  at  their  heads.  In  spite  of  her  high  spirit, 
the  girl,  who  can  scarcely  believe  her  own  ears,  turns  quietly 
to  her  father,  and  asks,  can  he  really  mean  what  he  says  ? 
The  two  men,  in  spite  of  her  father's  presence,  —  that  father 
in  whom  Katharine  finds  no  protector,  —  openly  scoff  at  her, 
and  at  her  reputation.  She  turns  upon  them,  coarsely  and 
rudely,  it  is  true,  but  with  an  instinct  of  self-defence.  A 
woman  left  to  fight  her  own  battles,  with  even  those  of  her 
own  household  against  her,  can  hardly  fail  to  be  rough  and 
rude. 

Common  opinion,  we  see,  admires  the  stage  heroine 
Bianca ;  Lucentio  at  first  sight  falls  in  love  with  her ;  and  yet 
half  a  dozen  Biancas  are  not  worth  that  shrewish  Katharine. 

Then  Gremio  takes  it  on  himself  to  plead  for  Bianca,  that 
he  may  make  his  suit  acceptable  to  her,  I  suppose ;  for 
Bianca,  as  he  speaks,  is  still  within  hearing. 


Taming  of  the  Shrew.  137 

Gremio.     Why,  will  you  mew  her  up, 
Signior  Baptista,  for  this  fiend  of  hell, 
And  make  her  bear  the  penance  of  her  tongue  ? 

Baptista.     Gentlemen,  content  ye.     I  am  resolved. 
Go  in,  Bianca. 

And,  for  I  know  she  taketh  most  delight 
In  music,  instruments,  and  poetry, 
Schoolmasters  will  I  keep  within  my  house 
Fit  to  instruct  her  youth.     If  you,  Hortensio, 
Or,  Signior  Gremio,  you,  know  any  such. 
Prefer  them  hither ;  for  to  cunning  men 
I  will  be  very  kind,  —  and  liberal 
To  mine  own  children  in  good  bringing  up. 
And  so  farewell.     Katharina,  you  may  stay ; 
For  I  have  more  to  commune  with  Bianca.  \Exit. 

Katharine.     Why,  and  I  trust  I  may  go  too,  may  I  not  "i 
What !  shall  I  be  appointed  hours,  as  though,  belike 
I  knew  not  what  to  take,  and  what  to  leave  ?     Ha  I       \Exit. 

This  speech  is  wrung  from  Katharine  by  the  painfulness 
of  her  position,  and  the  coarse  impertinence  of  the  men 
around  her.     She  flounces  off  the  stage  with  a  sore  heart. 

Then  comes  a  scene  in  which  Gremio,  the  old  suitor,  and 
Hortensio,  the  commonplace  young  man,  make  a  compact 
to  do  their  best  to  get  a  husband  for  Katharine,  —  Hortensio 
remarking  that  there  were  men  who  "  would  take  her  with  all 
faults,  were  there  money  enough, "  and,  as  Gremio  says,  "so 
rid  the  house  of  her."  Tranio  and  his  young  master  have  over- 
heard all  this,  and  being  left  upon  the  street  alone,  the  latter 
breaks  out  into  schoolboy  expressions  of  rapturous  love  for 
Bianca,  and  they  enter  into  a  plot  that  Lucentio  shall  offer  to 
become  one  of  her  teachers,  while  Tranio,  nothing  loath,  keeps 
house  in  Padua,  and  passes  for  the  son  of  his  master,  old 
Vincentio.  He  does  this  with  a  toadyish  declaration  that  it  is 
all  out  of  obedience  to  Vincentio,  and  love  for  Lucentio.  Bion- 
dello,  the  lackey,  is  instructed  to  wait  on  Tranio  as  his  master. 


138  Taming  of  the  Shrezv. 

Here  Sly  breaks  in:  "Is  there  any  more  of  it?"  "My 
lord,"  is  the  reply,  "  't  is  but  begun."  "  'T  is  a  very  excel- 
lent piece  of  work,  madam  lady,"  says  Sly  to  his  pretended 
wife  :  "  would  it  were  done  ! " 

Scene  2. 

Now  enters  Petruchio,  come  to  Padua  to  see  Hortensio. 
Petruchio  is  a  witty,  wilful,  and  eccentric  gentleman,  —  a  true 
gentleman  in  spite  of  his  assumed  roughness,  which  is  more 
than  can  be  said  for  sleek  Gremio  and  Hortensio.  If  he 
does  pull  his  servants'  ears  when  inclined  for  horse-play, 
they  all  love  him.  We  are  sure  Tranio  would  betray  his 
masters  if  any  one  would  make  it  worth  his  while  to  do  so ; 
but  old  Grumio  would  be  faithful  on  the  rack  to  Petruchio. 
By  the  way,  we  owe  Shakspeare  a  grudge  for  having  two 
names  so  much  alike  in  this  play,  though  their  wearers  are 
so  different,  —  Gremio  and  Grumio. 

Grumio,  Petruchio's  servant,  is  as  eccentric  as  his  master. 
He  began  the  quips  that  ended  in  his  thrashing ;  he  would 
rather  any  time  take  a  cuff  than  miss  a  joke ;  but  Hortensio 
cannot  take  a  joke ;  all  with  him  is  dead  commonplace, 
and  au  grand  serieux.  Petruchio,  flushed  with  his  new 
wealth,  and  possibly  by  his  new  li^jerty  (for  somehow  one 
fancies  his  father  had  been  a  curmudgeon),  is  "  up  to  any- 
thing." 

Crowns  in  my  purse  I  have,  and  goods  at  home, 
And  so  am  come  abroad  to  see  the  world. 

He  is  no  fortune-hunter.  He  is  above  suspicion  on  that  point, 
and  therefore  he  can  afford  to  make  merry  and  to  declare 
that  above  all  things  in  a  wife  he  is  going  to  look  out  for 
money,  — fanfaron  des  vices  qu'll  n^avait  pas,  like  Byron. 


Taming  of  the  Shrew,  139 

But  unlike  poor  Byron,  Petruchio's  boasts  are  in  sheer  frolic 
and  high  spirits.  The  world  is  smiling  on  Petruchio; 
it  never  smiled  on  Byron.  Besides,  I  think  he  knows  the 
somewhat  horrified  Hortensio  to  be  a  real  fortune-hunter. 
Hortensio,  without  perceiving  any  allusion  to  himself,  re- 
plies :  — 

Petruchio,  shall  I  then  come  roundly  to  thee 
And  wish  thee  to  a  shrewd  ill-favored  wife  ? 
Thou  'd'st  thank  me  but  a  little  for  my  counsel. 
And  yet  I  '11  promise  thee  she  shall  be  rich, 
And  very  rich ;  —  but  thou  'rt  too  much  my  friend. 
And  I  '11  not  wish  thee  to  her. 

Petruchio  enters  at  once  into  the  thing  as  a  joke,  and 
declares  that  no  matter  how  ugly,  how  old,  how  curst,  or 
shrewish  she  may  be,  so  long  as  she  has  money,  she  will 
suit  him. 

How  often  have  we  heard  the  same  kind  of  jesting  decla- 
ration made  ;  but  never  by  man  or  maid  in  earnest. 

Grumio  takes  up  the  joke,  partly  out  of  ill-humor  at  his 
recent  beating;  but  Hortensio,  taking  all  in  solemn  .part, 
goes  on  :  — 

I  can,  Petruchio,  help  thee  to  a  wife 
With  wealth  enough,  and  young,  and  beauteous, 
Brought  up  as  best  becomes  a  gentlewoman  ; 
Her  only  fault  is  that  she  is  intolerably  curst; 
/would  not  wed  her  for  a  mine  of  gold. 

Poor  Katharine  !  brought  up  amongst  such  a  set  as  those 
who  surround  her,  —  Baptista,  "the  affable  and  courteous 
gentleman"  as  Hortensio  calls  him,  who  is  in  reality,  calculat- 
ing, selfish,  unfatherly,  and  indelicate ;  the  sly  Bianca ;  the 
fortune-hunting  suitors,  —  universally  unpopular,  and  mis- 
trusted, —  no  wonder  she  is  a  grown-up  spoilt  child,  and  she 


140  Taming  of  the  Shrew, 

thoroughly  acts  up  to  her  reputation.  She  —  so  far  more 
highly  endowed  intellectually  and  in  heart  than  these  arti- 
ficial, selfish,  commonplace  people  —  is  yet  conscious  of 
having  won  their  scorn  by  her  want  of  self-control ;  and 
they  are  rather  pleased  to  find  themselves  on  some  points 
her  superiors,  and  are  ready  enough  to  thrust  the  conviction 
home  upon  her.  "  For,"  says  the  author  of  "  Shakspeare 
Talks  with  Uncritical  People,"  in  the  "Monthly  Packet," 
"  everything,  is  upside  down  with  her ;  and  to  her  feeling 
nothing  can  happen  rightly,  as  she  has  got  out  of  her  own 
control,  and  that  of  everybody  else.  .  .  .  She  is  not  able 
to  manage  herself,  and  is  too  strong  for  those  about  her. 
Baptista  has  no  authority  and  Bianca  no  influence  over 
her;  so  there  is  no  check  to  her  wild  passion.  ...  In 
fact,  Katharine  does  not  know  what  to  do  with  her  unhappy, 
irritable  self,  she  is  half-crazy  with  long-indulged  temper, 
and  while  she  is  in  this  condition  nothing  can  please  or 
soothe  her.  In  her  rages  one  is  half  sorry  for  her,  as  one  is 
for  a  child,  or  an  animal  in  a  passion ;  it  is  so  much  worse 
for  her  than  for  the  objects  of  the  storm."  Petruchio,  eager 
to  be  doing  something,  is  piqued  and  amused  by  Hortensio's 
account  of  this  spoilt  beauty  whom  nobody  can  tame. 
He  was  joking  at  first,  but  soon  begins  to  take  an  interest 
in  Kate,  and,  finding  Baptista  was  an  old  friend  of  his  father, 
he  presses  Hortensio  to  introduce  him  to  her  family.  Hor- 
tensio  is  quite  honest,  —  he  has  conscientiously  warned  his 
friend,  —  but  as  he  will  run  into  danger,  he  begs  him  to  in- 
troduce him  in  his  turn  into  the  house,  disguised  as  a  music- 
teacher  offering  his  services  to  the  young  ladies. 

Before  Petruchio  can  give  any  answer  (and  ten  to  one  he 
would  have  refused,  for  he  was  a  man  who  liked  everything 


Taming  of  the  Shrew.  141 

open  and  above  board)  Gremio  came  in,  with  Lucentio 
disguised  as  a  classical  professor. 

Grumio  instantly,  as  if  in  answer  to  his  master's  thought, 
cries  out :  "  This  is  no  knavery  !  See  j  to  beguile  the  old 
folks  how  the  young  folks  lay  their  heads  together  !  Master, 
master,  look  about  you.     Who  goes  there?  ha? " 

He  has  recognized  Lucentio.  Hortensio,  mistaking  him, 
thinks  he  is  alluding  to  old  Gremio,  and  says,  "  Peace,  Grumio, 
't  is  the  rival  of  my  love."  To  which  Grumio  replies,  ironi- 
cally, "  A  proper  stripling,  and  an  amorous  !  " 

Then  comes  a  scene  where  Gremio,  who  is  to  introduce 
Lucentio  to  Baptista,  instructs  him  how  he  may  dispose 
Bianca  in  his  favor ;  and  thinking  only  of  money,  imagines 
well-bound  books  will  have  an  effect  upon  her.  Grumio 
standing  by  grumbles  at  Gremio  as  "an  old  ass,"  and  can 
hardly  be  persuaded  to  keep  a  civil  tongue.  When  Gremio 
perceives  his  rival  Hortensio,  he  boasts  that  he  has  stolen  a 
march  on  him  by  having  provided  a  teacher  for  Bianca ;  but 
Hortensio,  assures  him  he  has  met  a  gentleman  who  has 
promised  to  provide  her  with  a  music-master ;  and  then  goes 
on  to  say  he  thinks  he  has  also  found  a  suitor  for  Katharine. 
"  Hortensio,  have  you  told  him  all  her  faults?  "  says  Gremio. 
Here  Petruchio,  without  introduction,  breaks  in  impatiently. 
I  think  he  is  beginning  to  feel  sorry  for  Kate,  surrounded  as 
she  is  by  a  set  of  fools.  "  I  know,"  he  says,  "  she  is  an  irk- 
some, brawling  scold ;  if  that  be  all,  masters,  I  hear  no  harm." 
And  indeed,  Petruchio  is  right ;  there  are  worse  faults  by  far 
than  a  quick  temper.  Then,  too,  he  is  pleased  to  think  there 
is  a  task  before  him,  —  and  he  feels  equal  to  it.  Imagination 
has  a  great  deal  to  do  with  a  man's  love,  and  Petruchio  is 
beginning  to  think  fair  Kate  "  a  foeman  worthy  of  his  steel." 


142  Taming  of  the  Shrew. 

Grumio  too,  who  has  unbounded  faith  in  his  master's  abihty 
to  get  his  own  way,  begins  to  be  of  the  same  opinion.  Rich, 
beautiful,  well-nurtured,  and  subdued  by  Petruchio,  why 
should  not  the  lady  prove  a  blessing  to  the  family  ?  —  ay, 
more  of  a  blessing  than  one  who  had  Petruchio  under  her 
thumb,  if  that  were  possible ;  as  it  might  be  if  the  match 
were  made  purely  for  love.  Petruchio  ends  a  speech  about 
the  impotency  of  a  woman's  tongue  with  "  Tush,  tush,  fright 
boys  with  bugs  !  "  —  that  is,  bug-bears.  Hortensio,  stupidly 
honest,  here  remarks  to  Gremio  that  he  had  promised 
they  should  together  bear  all  the  courting  expenses  of  Petru- 
chio. "Ay,"  says  Gremio  cautiously,  *' provided  he  win 
her."  Petruchio  says  nothing.  We  may  be  sure  he  was  too 
much  a  gentleman  to  accept  the  proposition. 

Here  enters  Tranio,  dressed  up  splendidly  as  Lucentio,  and 
attended  by  the  lackey  Biondello.  He  inquires  the  way  to 
Baptista  Minola's  house  —  "he  that  has  two  fair  daughters." 
Gremio  pricks  up  his  ears  and  fears  another  suitor  to 
Bianca.  Petruchio  cries  out,  "  Not  her  that  chides,  at  any 
hand  I  pray."  Then  ensues  a  wrangle  between  the  suitors 
of  Bianca,  in  the  course  of  which  something  disparaging  is 
said  of  Kate.  But  Kate  is  no  longer  defenceless  ;  Petruchio 
stands  up  for  her,  and  once  more  comes  from  Bianca's  suitors 
an  offer  of  pecuniary  compensation,  should  he  succeed  in 
getting  Katharine  out  of  their  way.  To  which  offer  Petruchio, 
disgusted,  says  never  a  word. 

Act   H.     Scene  i. 

We  next  find  ourselves  in  Baptista's  house  ;  and  here  Katha- 
rine, fretted  and  humiliated,  gives  way  to  one  of  her  worst 
tantrums.     Bianca  is  completely  cowed.     I  think  it  is  not  so 


Taming  of  the  Shrew.  143 

much  amiability  as  thorough  fear  of  rousing  the  vexed  devil  in 
Kate,  which  makes  her  so  mealy-mouthed  and  submissive. 
Kate  is  bent  on  finding  out  which  suitor  Bianca  cares  the 
most   for,  and   is   carrying   out   her   purpose  with   a  JiiglT" 
hand. 

In  the  midst  of  the  brawl  Baptista  enters  with,  as  usual, 
gibes  for  the  elder  sister,  pity  for  the  younger  one.  It  is 
perfectly  true  that  a  "  soft  answer  turnetli  away  wrath ;  "  but 
there  are  also  times,  when,  as  Katharine  says  :  "  Silence  and 
patience  seem  to  flout  the  wrong-doer,"  —  especially  when 
the  offender  feels  well  assured  they  spring  from  fear.  Then 
Katharine  turns  upon  her  father :  Yes,  he  cares  to  provide 
a  husband  for  Bianca !  She,  Katharine,  his  eldest,  will 
"dance  barefoot  on  her  sister's  wedding  day,  and  so  lead 
apes  in  hell  "  (signs  of  old  maidenhood).  Not  that  Katha- 
rine would  bear  to  be  bartered  away  by  Baptista  like  Bianca. 

In  her  wrath,  which  Baptista's  scolding  only  makes  worse, 
Kate  is  utterly  unreasonable,  for  her  father  had  really  set 
aside  Bianca's  suitors  for  her  sake ;  but  she  is  so  beside  her- 
self, poor  girl,  that  she  does  not  pause  for  reason,  and 
Baptista,  at  his  wits'  ends,  can  only  wring  his  hands. 

"  There  is  something  very  funny,"  says  the  writer  in  the 
"Monthly  Packet,"  "in  the  way  Petruchio  marches  in  upon 
him,  saying,  as  it  were,  'Good  morning;  I  wish  to  marry 
your  daughter,'  even  before  telling  his  own  name.  Baptista, 
we  know,  is  not  sentimental,  but  he  seems  startled  at  this 
way  of  going  to  work ;  and  fussy  old  Gremio  is  quite  aghast 
at  the  new  comer's  coolness,  not  only  in  his  abrupt  proposals, 
wherein  Tranio  (the  false  Lucentio)  promptly  imitates  him, 
but  in  introducing  a  tutor  for  the  young  ladies  before  he  has 
been  two  minutes  in  the  house.     However,  Baptista  gladly 


144  Taming  of  the  Shrew, 

catches  at  any  suitor  for  Katharine,  and  would  doubtless 
have  treated  the  proposal  with  dignified  consideration  had 
not  the  irrepressible  Petruchio  cut  in  with  the  bluntest  ques- 
tions as  to  the  lady's  dowry,  and  expressed  his  wish  to  get  to 
the  point  at  once."  Indeed,  I  fancy  he  wanted  to  have  as 
little  as  possible  to  do  with  Katharine's  relations,  especially 
her  father.  But  though  Petruchio  is  mercenary  in  his  talk, 
it  is  in  talk  only.  *  He  instantly  proposes  to  settle  on  his 
wife  an  equivalent  for  her  dowry,  —  a  matter  that  Bianca's 
suitors  haggle  over. 

When  Baptista  doubts  if  Petruchio  can  win  his  daughter's 
love,  he  replies  confidently  :  — 

I  am  as  peremptory  as  she  proud-minded ; 
And  when  two  raging  fires  meet  together, 

They  do  consume  the  thing  that  feeds  their  fury. 

* 

At  this  moment  Hortensio  rushes  in  with  his  head  broken. 
Katharine,  who,  I  think,  recognized  him  under  his  disguise, 
had  flown  out  at  him.  She  *'  owed  him  one,"  and  more  than 
one,  for  his  insolence  to  her  in  the  first  scene  of  the  first 
act ;  and  she  pays  it  with  interest.  I  am  inclined  to  think 
she  hated  and  despised  Hortensio,  even  more  than  she  did 
old  Gremio. 

This  scene  only  quickens  Petruchio's  desire  to  get  to  work 
at  his  task  of  subjugation;  and  he  gladly  accepts  Baptista* s 
proposal  to  send  his  daughter  to  confer  with  him. 

Baptista.     Signior  Petruchio,  will  you  go  with  us, 
Or  shall  I  send  my  daughter  Kate  to  you  ? 

Petruchio.    I  pray  you,  do;  I  will  attend  her  here, 

\Exeunt  Baptista,  Gremio,  Tranio,  and  Hortensio. 
And  woo  her  with  some  spirit  when  she  comes. 
Say  that  she  rail ;  why,  then  I  '11  tell  her  plain, 


Taming  of  the  Shrew.  145 

She  sings  as  sweetly  as  a  nightingale ; 

Say  that  she  frowns  ;  I  '11  say  she  looks  as  clear 

As  morning  roses  newly  washed  with  dew. 

Say  she  be  mute,  and  will  not  speak  a  word ; 

Then  I  '11  commend  her  volubility, 

And  say  she  uttereth  piercing  eloquence. 

If  she  do  bid  me  pack,  I  '11  give  her  thanks, 

As  though  she  bid  me  stay  by  her  a  week. 

If  she  deny  to  wed,  I  'II  crave  the  day 

When  I  shall  ask  the  banns,  and  when  be  married. 

But  here  she  comes  ;  and  now,  Petruchio,  speak. 

\Enter  Katharine. 
Good  morrow,  Kate  ;  for  that 's  your  name,  I  hear. 

Katharine.     Well  have  you  heard,  but  something  hard  of  hearing. 
They  call  me  Katharine,  that  do  talk  of  me. 

Petruchio.     You  lie,  in  faith,  for  you  are  called  plain  Kate, 
And  bonny  Kate,  and  sometimes  Kate  the  curst ; 
But  Kate,  the  prettiest  Kate  in  Christendom, 
Kate  of  Kate-hall,  my  super-dainty  Kate, 
For  dainties  are  all  9ates  ;  and  therefore,  Kate, 
Take  this  of  me.     Kate  of  my  consolation. 
Hearing  thy  mildness  praised  in  every  town, 
Thy  virtues  spoke  of,  and  thy  beauty  sounded 
(Yet  not  so  deeply  as  to  thee  belongs), 
Myself  am  moved  to  woo  thee  for  my  wife. 

Katharine.     Moved !  in  good  time  ;  let  him  that  moved  you  hither 
Remove  you  hence. 

The  scene  that  follows  is  capital.  At  every  point  Kate 
finds  herself  checkmated.  Hitherto,  her  quick  wit  had 
given  her  the  advantage,  in  every  encounter  with  the  com- 
monplace simpletons  about  her,  whom  she  cowed  with  her 
words,  yet  who  stung  and  galled  her.  Moreover,  every  one 
was  as  insolent  to  her  as  he  dared  to  be  ;  reproaches  and  bad 
words  had  all  her  life  been  heaped  upon  her;  and  here 
indeed  is  a  contrast,  —  a  gentleman  whose  wits  are  keener 
than  her  own ;  one  not  only  not  afraid  of  her,  but  bent  on 
making  her  fear  him ;  and  further,  one  who  treats  her,  not 

10 


1 46  Taming  of  the  Shrew. 


with  contumely,  but  with  deference  and  admiration.  No 
wonder,  as  sailors  say,  he  takes  the  wind  out  of  her  sails.  It 
is  also  certain  that  any  treatment  that  is  new  to  an  habitual 
offender  has  the  greatest  effect  on  him.  Thus,  kindness,  to 
those  used  to  be  treated  brutally ;  sharpness,  to  those  habitu- 
ally indulged  and  spoiled ;  boldness,  with  those  accustomed 
to  domineer,  almost  always  prevail.  All  these  novelties 
Petruchio  tries  with  Katharine.  He  begins  with  sharp  con- 
tradiction, and  she  cannot  stop  him ;  with  flattery,  to  which 
she  is  all  unused ;  with  an  interchange  of  wits,  in  which  he 
conquers ;  with  a  soiip^on  of  brute  force,  when  he  seizes  her 
wrist  and  kisses  her.  He  thinks,  perhaps,  he  has  gone  too  far, 
and  calls  her,  —  "  Come  back,  good  Kate.  I  am  a  gentle- 
man." At  this  she  boxes  his  ears.  He  wins,  however,  even  in 
this  challenge,  declaring,  "  I  swear  I  '11  cuff  you  if  you  strike 
again  ! "  Then  off  he  goes  again  in  a  quick  interchange  of 
wits,  which  Kate,  although  the  loser,  enjoys  as  something  to 
which  she  is  unaccustomed;  so  that,  when  he  puts,  his  arm 
around  her  again,  she  only  cries  :  "  I  chafe  you  if  I  tarry,  — 
let  me  go  !  "  The  spell  has  begun  to  work.  Then  he  breaks 
forth  with  flatteries,  and  ends  by  making  believe  that  tlie  world 
had  reported  her  to  be  slightly  lame.  With  that  she  sweeps 
across  the  stage,  in  all  her  queenliness,  bent  upon  showing 
herself  to  him  at  her  best,  and  he  breaks  forth  in  genuine 
admiration.  Then,  pressing  his  advantage,  he  announces 
that  she  is  as  good  as  his  wife  already ;  that  the  dowry  is 
agreed  upon  ;  and  that,  will  she,  nill  she,  he  who  is  born  to 
tame  her  means  to  be  married  on  Sunday. 

Katharine.    I  chafe  you  if  I  tarry,  —  let  me  go. 
Petrtuhio.     No,  not  a  whit ;  I  find  you  passing  gentle. 
'T  was  told  me  you  were  rough,  and  coy,  and  sullen, 


Taming  of  the  Shrew.  147 

And  now  I  find  report  a  very  liar, 
For  thou  art  pleasant,  gamesome,  passing  courteous, 
But  slow  in  speech,  yet  sweet  as  spring-time  flowers  ; 
-  Thou  canst  not  frown ;  thou  canst  not  look  askance, 
Nor  bite  the  lip  as  angry  wenches  will, 
Nor  hast  thou  pleasure  to  be  cross  in  talk ; 
But  thou  with  mildness  entertain'st  thy  wooers. 
With  gentle  conference,  soft  and  aifable. 
Why  does  the  world  report  that  Kate  doth  limp  ? 
O,  slanderous  world  !     Kate,  like  the  hazel  twig. 
Is  straight  and  slender,  and  as  brown  in  hue 
As  hazel  nuts,  and  sweeter  than  the  kernels. 

0  !  let  me  see  thee  walk.     Thou  dost  not  halt. 
Katharine.     Go,  fool !  and  whom  thou  keep'st  command. 
Petruchio.    Did  ever  Dian  so  become  a  grove 

As  Kate  this  chamber  with  her  princely  gait  ? 

O !  be  thou  Dian,  and  let  her  be  Kate, 

And  then  let  Kate  be  chaste,  and  Dian  sportful  ! 

Katharine.     Where  did  you  study  all  this  goodly  speech .? 

Petruchio.     It  is  extempore,  from  my  mother-wit. 

Katharine.     A  witty  mother  !  witless  else  her  son. 

Petruchio.     Am  I  not  wise  ?  .  .  .  But,  Kate, 
Thus  in  plain  terms  :  Your  father  hath  consented 
That  you  shall  be  my  wife  ;  your  dower  's  agreed  on  ; 
And,  will  you,  nill  you,  I  will  marry  you. 
Now,  Kate,  I  am  a  husband  for  your  turn. 
For,  by  this  light,  whereby  I  see  thy  beauty 
(Thy  beauty,  that  doth  make  me  like  thee  well), 
Thou  must  be  married  to  no  man  but  me. 
,       For  I  am  he  am  born  to  tame  you,  Kate, 
And  bring  you  from  a  wild-cat  to  a  Kate 
Conformable,  as  other  household  Kates. 
Here  comes  your  father.     Never  make  denial ; 

1  must  and  will  have  Katharine  for  my  wife. 

Here  enters  Baptista,  with  Gremio  and  Tranio.  Kate, 
hotly  displeased  at  hearing  that  all  has  been  settled  without 
her  consent,  gives  a  very  false  account  of  the  interview, 
declaring  Petruchio  had  behaved  "like  one  half-lunatic,  a 


148  Taming  of  the  Shrew, 

mad-cap  ruffian,  and  a  swearing  Jack."  Then  Petruchio 
pays  her  off  with  a  still  falser  account  of  her  own  be- 
havior :  — 

Father,  't  is  thus.     Yourself  and  all  the  world 

That  talked  of  her,  have  talked  amiss  of  her. 

If  she  be  curst  it  is  for  policy. 

For  she  's  not  froward,  but  modest  as  the  dove ; 

She  is  not  hot,  but  temperate  as  the  morn  ; 

For  patience  she  will  prove  a  second  Grizzel ; 

And  Roman  Lucrece  for  her  chastity. 

And  to  conclude,  —  we  've  'greed  so  well  together 

That  upon  Sunday  is  the  wedding-day. 

Then,  while  Kate  is  still  bewildered  by  the  audacity 
of  his  assertions,  he  seizes  her  hand,  and  by  way  of  giv- 
ing her  to  understand  he  is  no  fortune-hunter,  and  also 
to  get  rid  of  her  relations,  and  avoid  occasions  of  dis- 
pute, he  announces  his  intention  of  going  at  once  to 
Venice,  and  bringing  such  things  as  women  love,  to  deck 
his  bride. 

To  some  gibes  on  the  part  of  Gremio  and  Tranio,  he 
replies :  — 

Be  patient,  gentlemen ;  I  choose  her  for  myself. 

If  she  and  I  be  pleased,  what 's  that  to  you  } 

'T  is  bargained  'twixt  us  twain,  being  alone, 

That  she  shall  still  be  curst  in  company. 

I  tell  you,  't  is  incredible  to  believe 

How  much  she  loves  me.    O !  the  kindest  Kate  !  — 

She  hung  about  my  neck,  and  kiss  on  kiss 

She  vied  so  fast,  protesting  oath  on  oath, 

That  in  a  twink  she  won  me  to  her  love. 

O  !  you  are  novices.     'T  is  a  world  to  see 

How  tame,  when  men  and  women  are  alone, 

The  veriest  wretch  can  make  the  curstest  shrew. 

Give  me  thy  hand,  Kate.     I  will  unto  Venice 

To  buy  apparel  'gainst  the  wedding-day. 


Taming  of  the  Shrew,  149 

Provide  the  feast,  father,  and  bid  the  guests  ; 
I  will  be  sure  my  Katharine  shall  be  fine. 

Baptista.     I  know  not  what  to  say.    But  give  me  your  hands  ; 
God  send  you  joy,  Petruchio !  *t  is  a  match. 

Gremio  and  Tranio.     Amen,  say  we  ;  we  will  be  witnesses. 

Petruchio.     Father,  and  wife,  and  gentlemen,  adieu. 
I  will  to  Venice  ;  Sunday  comes  apace. 
We  will  have  rings,  and  things,  and  fine  array  ; 
And  kiss  me,  Kate,  we  will  be  married  o'  Sunday. 

Then  Kate  and  Petruchio  having  left  the  chamber,  there 
ensues  a  wholly  different  scene,  —  the  suit  of  Bianca's  wooers. 
She  is  not  consulted  even  as  much  as  Katharine,  but  "  he 
who  bids  highest  shall  have  her,"  says  her  father.  Gre- 
mio, who  is  really  very  rich,  gives  an  inventory  of  his 
valuables :  — 

First,  as  you  know,  my  house  within  the  city 
Is  richly  furnished  with  plate  and  gold,  — 
Basins  and  ewers  to  lave  her  dainty  hands. 
My  hangings  all  of  Tyrian  tapestry. 
In  ivory  coffers  I  have  stufied  my  crowns  ; 
In  cypress  chests  my  arras,  counterpoints. 
Costly  apparel,  tents,  and  canopies, 
Fine  linen,  Turkey  cushions,  bossed  with  pearl, 
Valance  of  Venice  gold  in  needlework. 
Pewter  and  brass,  and  all  things  that  belong 
To  house  or  housekeeping.     Then  at  my  farm 
I  have  a  hundred  milch  kine  to  the  pail, 
Six  score  fat  oxen  standing  in  my  stalls, 
And  all  things  answerable  to  this  portion. 
Myself  am  struck  in  years,  I  must  confess ; 
And  if  I  die  to-morrow,  this  is  hers 
If,  while  I  live,  she  will  be  only  mine. 

Then  Tranio  caps  every  one  of  Gremio 's  propositions, 
drawing  the  long  bow  even  as  regards  the  wealth  of  Vincentio, 
Lucentio's  father.  But  Gremio  hesitates  as  to  his  wife's  join- 
ture.    Baptista  accepts  Tranio   as   the   highest  bidder,  on 


150  Taming  of  the  Shrew, 

condition  that  his  (supposed)  father,  Vincentio,  ratifies  his 
promises ;  which  Gremio  is  certain  no  old  Italian  fox  will 
ever  do. 

Act  III.     Scene  i. 

Bianca  is  alone  with  her  two  lovers,  Lucentio  and  Hor- 
tensio,  disguised  as  teachers.  Lucentio  knows  Hortensio, 
but  Hortensio  is  in  the  dark  concerning  Lucentio.  The 
lesson  scene  is  a  very  pretty  one.  The  two  tutors  each  want 
the  exclusive  attention  of  their  charming  scholar,  who  puts 
them  in  their  proper  places  with  pretty  resolution.  Hortensio 
is  set  to  tune  his  lute,  while  Lucentio  reads  out  lines  of  Virgil, 
and  construes  them  in  her  ear  with  love-making,  as :  "  Hac 
ibai,  as  I  told  you  before  ;  Simois,  I  am  Lucentio  ;  hie  est,  son 
of  Vincentio  of  Pisa ;  Sigeas  tellus,  disguised  thus  to  get  your 
love."  **  Bianca  has  a  turn  for  contrivance,"  says  the  writer 
in  the  " Monthly  Packet  j "  "and  we  can  fancy  her  sitting 
with  a  perfectly  demure  face  while  Lucentio  rolls  out  the  sound- 
ing Latin,  and  whispers  his  much  more  interesting  construing 
of  the  same.  The  impatient  musician  meanwhile  fumes  to  and 
fro,  causing  Lucentio  to  come  out  with  edifying  scraps  of 
classical  information  (such  as,  'Sure,  ^acides  was  Ajax, — 
called  so  from  his  grandfather'),  —  which  do  not,  however, 
throw  his  rival  off  the  scent  of  his  secret.  Hortensio  cannot 
get  anything  but  mere  civility  from  Bianca ;  even  his  original 
'  gamut '  does  not  make  any  impression  upon  her,  and  he  is 
considerably  disgusted  and  disenchanted." 

Scene  2. 

This  next  scene  brings  us  to  Sunday,  the  wedding-day. 
All  is  ready  in  Baptista's  house,  but  Petruchio  has  not  arrived. 


Taming  of  the  Shrew.  1 5 1 

Katharine  is  bitterly  mortified  and  disappointed.  She  had 
really  liked  her  bridegroom,  and  now  endeavors  to  salve  over 
the  affront  by  declaring  he  was  mad,  —  she  had  said  so  from 
the  first.  But  she  is  more  dignified  and  reasonable  than 
could  have  been  expected.  There  is  all  the  woman  in  her 
exclamation,  as  she  weeps,  "  Would  Katharine  had  never  seen 
him,  though !  " 

At  this  point  in  rushes  Biondello,  the  lackey,  with  news 
that  signior  Petruchio  is  at  hand,  and  in  this  fashion,  — 

In  a  new  hat  and  an  old  jerkin ;  a  pair  of  old  breeches,  thrice 
turned ;  a  pair  of  boots  that  have  been  candle-cases,  one  buckled,  the 
other  laced  ;  an  old  rusty  sword  ta'en  out  of  the  town  armory,  with  a 
broken  hilt ;  and  two  broken  points,  —  his  horse  hipped  with  an  old 
mothy  saddle,  the  stirrups  of  no  kindred  ;  besides,  possessed  with  the 
glanders,  troubled  with  the  lampas,  full  of  wind-galls,  sped  with  spavins, 
rayed  with  the  yellows,  past  cure  of  the  fives,  stark  spoiled  with  the 
staggers,  begnawn  with  the  bots,  swayed  in  the  back,  and  shoulder- 
shotten,  ne'er-legged  before,  and  with  a  half-checked  bit,  and  a  head- 
stall of  sheep's  leather,  which  being  restrained  to  keep  him  from 
stumbhng  hath  been  often  burst,  and  now  repaired  with  knots ;  one 
girth  six  times  pieced,  and  a  woman's  crupper  of  velours,  which  hath 
two  letters  left  of  her  name  fairly  set  down  in  studs,  and  here  and 
there  pieced  with  packthread  ! 

Baptista.     Who  comes  with  him  ? 

Biondello.  O,  sir,  his  lackey,  for  all  the  world  caparisoned  like  the 
horse,  — with  a  linen  stock  on  one  leg,  and  a  kersey  boot-hose  on  the 
other,  gartered  with  a  red  and  blue  list;  an  old  hat  and  the  "Amours 
in  Forty  Fancies "  pricked  in  it  like  a  feather.  A  monster,  a  very 
monster  in  apparel,  and  not  like  a  Christian  foot-boy,  or  a  gentleman's 
lackey. 

The  very  sound  of  this  speech  is  breathless.  We  see  Bi- 
ondello, as  we  read  it,  with  his  eyes  popping  out  of  his  head. 
In  old  editions  the  paper  book  which  Grumio  has  twisted  up 
and  stuck  into  his  old  hat  like  a  feather,  is  called  The  Hu- 
mor of  Forty  Fancies,  and  it  has  puzzled  commentators.     By 


152  Taming  of  the  Shrew, 

help  of  the  strange,  unknown  manuscript  corrector  of  the  old 
Folio,  that  title  is  now  supposed  to  be  a  misprint.  Drayton, 
the  author  of  the  noble  ballad  of  Agin  court,  and  the  Poly- 
Olbion  from  which  Shakspeare  drew  passages  in  "  Midsum- 
mer Night's  Dream,"  mysteriously  quarrelled  with  Shakspeare, 
and  it  is  conjectured  that  he  may  have  been  affronted  by  the 
dishonorable  use  to  which  his  brother  author,  for  a  joke,  put 
his  "  Amours  in  Quatorzains." 

Petnichio  makes  his  blustering  appearance  as  if  he  had 
never  even  heard  of  the  wedding.  His  first  question  is, 
"  Who  's  at  home  ?  "  Tranio,  who  is  not  a  gentleman,  com- 
ments at  once  on  his  apparel.  *'  Were  it  better,  then,"  cries 
Petruchio,  dashing  across  the  stage,  "that  I  should  rush  in 
thusV 

Mark  throughout  this  scene  the  dignity  and  courtesy  of 
Baptista,  old  mercenary  fool  as  he  is,  and  the  upstart  inter- 
ference of  Tranio,  and  observe  how  in  matters  of  social  in- 
tercourse breeding  and  blood  tell. 

There  is  a  touch  of  real  feehng  —  a  feeling  that  I  should 
think  might  rise  in  the  heart  of  every  bridegroom  who  had 
the  right  stuff  in  him  —  in  Petruchio's  wish  that  the  rents 
that  marred  his  life  were  all  repaired  for  the  sake  of  the 
woman  who  was  henceforth  to  wear  him. 

Petruchio.    Come,  where  be  those  gallants  ?  who 's  at  home  ? 

Baptista.    You  are  welcome,  sir. 

Petruchio.  And  yet  I  come  not  well. 

Baptista.    And  yet  you  halt  not. 

Tranio.  Not  so  well  apparelled 

As  I  wish  you  were. 

Petruchio.     Were  it  better  I  should  rush  in  thus  ? 
But  where  is  Kate  ?  where  is  my  lovely  bride  ? 
How  does  my  father  }    Gentles,  methinks  you  frown ; 


Taming  of  the  Shrew,  153 

And  wherefore  gaze  this  goodly  company, 
As  if  they  saw  some  wondrous  monument, 
Some  comet,  or  unusual  prodigy  ? 

Baptista.     Why,  sir,  you  know  this  is  your  wedding-day. 
First  we  were  sad,  fearing  you  would  not  come ; 
Now  sadder  that  you  come  so  unprovided. 
Fie  !  doff  this  habit,  shame  to  your  estate, 
An  eye-sore  to  our  solemn  festival. 

Tranio.     And  tell  us  what  occasion  of  import 
Hath  all  so  long  detained  you  from  your  wife, 
And  sent  you  hither  so  unlike  yourself. 

Petruchio.     Tedious  it  were  to  tell,  and  harsh  to  hear. 
Sufficeth  I  am  come  to  keep  my  word, 
Though  in  some  part  enforced  to  digress; 
Which  at  more  leisure  I  will  so  excuse 
That  you  shall  all  be  satisfied  withal. 
But  where  is  Kate  .?     I  stay  too  long  from  her. 
The  morning  wears ;  't  is  time  we  were  at  church. 

Tranio.     See  not  your  bride  in  these  irreverent  robes. 
Go  to  my  chamber ;  put  on  clothes  of  mine. 

Petruchio.    Not  I,  believe  me  ;  thus  I  '11  visit  her. 

Baptista.     But  thus,  I  trust,  you  will  not  marry  her. 

Petruchio.    Good  sooth,  e'en  thus !  therefore  have  done  with  words  ; 
To  me  she 's  married,  not  unto  my  clothes. 
Could  I  repair  what  she  will  wear  in  me 
As  I  can  change  these  poor  accoutrements 
*T  were  well  for  Kate,  and  better  for  myself,  — 
But  what  a  fool  I  am  to  chat  with  you 
When  I  should  bid  good-morrow  to  my  bride, 
And  seal  the  title  with  a  loving  kiss. 

When  Baptista,  Petruchio,  Grumio,  and  the  lackey  go  out, 
Tranio  (vi^hom  I  detest)  has  a  few  words  apart  with  Lucentio 
about  their  plans.  He  proposes  to  substitute  a  false  Vincentio, 
and  actually  to  swindle  Baptista  out  of  his  Bianca.  Lucentio, 
we  are  happy  to  find,  prefers  an  honest  runaway  marriage. 

Tranio.    But,  sir,  to  her  love  concerneth  us  to  add 
Her  father's  liking.     Which  to  bring  to  pass. 


154  Taming  of  the  Shrew. 

As  I  before  imparted  to  your  worship, 

I  am  to  get  a  man,  —  whate'er  he  be 

It  skills  not  much,  we  '11  fit  him  to  our  turn,  — 

And  he  shall  be  Vincentio  of  Pisa, 

And  make  assurance  here  in  Padua 

Of  greater  sums  than  I  have  promised. 

So  shall  you  quietly  enjoy  your  hope, 

And  marry  sweet  Bianca  with  consent. 

Lucentio,     Were  it  not  that  my  fellow-schoolmaster 
Doth  watch  Bianca's  steps  so  narrowly, 
'T  were  good,  methinks,  to  steal  our  marriage ; 
Which  once  performed,  let  all  the  world  say  —  No  ! 
I  '11  keep  mine  own  despite  of  all  the  world. 

While  they  converse  comes  in  old  Gremio.  He  has 
been  present  at  the  mad-cap  wedding.  Here  is  the  scene. 
Mark  still  the  impudence  and  want  of  courteous  feeling  in 
Tranio. 

Tranio.     Signior  Gremio !  came  you  from  the  church  "i 

Gremio.    As  willingly  as  e'er  I  came  from  school. 

Tranio.    And  is  the  bride  and  bridegroom  coming  home  ? 

Gremio.    A  bridegroom,  say  you  ?    'T  is  a  groom  indeed ; 
A  grumbling  groom,  and  that  the  girl  shall  find. 

Tranio.     Curster  than  she  ?     Why!  't is  impossible. 

Gremio.     Why  he  's  a  devil  —  a  devil,  the  very  fiend. 

Tranio.     Why  she 's  a  devil  —  a  devil,  the  devil's  dam. 

Gremio.    Tut !  she 's  a  lamb,  a  dove,  a  fool  to  him. 
I  '11  tell  you,  sir  Lucentio :     When  the  priest 
Should  ask  if  Katharine  should  be  his  wife, 
"Ay !  by  gogs- wounds  !  "  quoth  he,  and  swore  so  loud 
That,  all  amazed,  the  priest  let  fall  the  book ; 
And  as  he  stooped  again  to  pick  it  up, 
The  mad-brained  bridegroom  took  him  such  a  cuff 
That  down  fell  priest  and  book,  and  book  and  priest. 
"  Now  take  them  up,"  quoth  he,  "  if  any  list." 

Tranio.     What  said  the  wench  when  he  arose  again  ? 

Gremio.    Trembled  and  shook,  for  why,  he  stamped  and  swore. 
As  if  the  vicar  meant  to  cozen  him. 
But  after  many  ceremonies  done. 


Taming  of  the  Shrew.  155 

He  calls  for  wine  :  "  A  health,"  quoth  he,  as  if 
He  had  been  aboard,  carousing  to  his  mates 
After  a  storm,  —  quaffed  off  the  muscadel, 
And  threw  the  sops  all  in  the  sexton's  face, 
Having  no  other  reason,  so  he  said. 
But  that  his  beard  grew  thin  and  hungerly, 
And  seemed  to  ask  him  sops  as  he  was  drinking. 
This  done,  he  took  the  bride  about  the  neck. 
And  kissed  her  lips  with  such  a  clamorous  smack 
That  at  the  parting  all  the  church  did  echo. 
I,  seeing  this,  came  hence  for  very  shame, 
J     And  after  me  I  know  the  rout  is  coming ; 
Such  a  mad  marriage  never  was  before. 
Hark !  hark !     I  think  I  hear  the  minstrels  play. 

The  "rout,"  as  Gremio  calls  it,  comes  in,  and  we  may 
remark  Petruchio  in  the  character  of  a  gentleman;  for  a 
moment  he  lays  aside  his  foolery.  It  is  really  necessary 
he  should  carry  off  Katharine  at  once ;  and  though  we  are 
sorry  he  should  refuse  her  first  request,  asked  mildly,  we  see 
that  he  has  reason  on  his  side.  We  may  note  too  that 
Baptista,  the  real  host,  does  not  join  in  Tranio's  officious 
invitation  to  stay  to  dinner.  I  think  he  was  glad  to  be  rid  of 
the  incomprehensible,  disorderly  pair.  But  Katharine,  the 
wife,  makes  her  first  effort  at  self-assertion,  and  is  utterly 
foiled.  Under  a  mask  of  boundless  devotion  to  her  interests, 
exacting  for  his  wife  a  deference  and  attention  she  is  little 
accustomed  to,  and  with  words  of  lover's  fondness,  Petruchio 
insists  on  having  his  own  way — ay,  and  on  his  right  to  have 
it  too.  He  has  right  and  power  on  his  side,  and  treats  his 
wife  to  a  burlesque  assertion  of  that  right,  till  Katharine  is 
utterly  bewildered,  and  Baptista  is  thankful  to  be  left  in  peace. 
"  We  may  remark,"  says  the  writer  in  the  "  Monthly  Packet," 
"  that  this  is  the  only  time  that  Petruchio  distinctly  claims 
authority  to  force  Kate  to  do  what  she  dislikes.     When  once 


156  Taming  of  the  Shrew, 

he  has  so  far  mastered  her,  all  his  future  operations  are  veiled 
under  the  appearance  of  considering  her  wishes,  and  what 
is  good  for  her.  He  knows  that  to  lose  his  temper  would 
be  to  give  her  an  advantage  over  him,  and  besides,  being  a 
good  fellow  and  a  gentleman,  he  would  never  dream  of  really 
hurting  her." 

Petruchio.    Gentlemen  and  friends,  I  thank  you  for  your  pains. 
I  know  you  think  to  dine  with  me  to-day, 
And  have  prepared  great  store  of  wedding  cheer  ; 
But  so  it  is,  my  haste  doth  call  me  hence, 
And  therefore  here  I  mean  to  take  my  leave. 

Baptista.     Is 't  possible  you  will  away  to-night  ? 

Petruchio.     I  must  away  to-day,  before  night  comes. 
Make  it  no  wonder  ;  if  you  knew  my  business 
You  would  entreat  me  rather  go  than  stay. 
And,  honest  company,  I  thank  you  all 
That  have  beheld  me  give  myself  away 
To  this  most  patient,  sweet,  and  virtuous  wife. 
Dine  with  my  father,  drink  a  health  to  me. 
For  I  must  hence  ;  and  farewell  to  you  all. 

Tranio.     Let  us  entreat  you  stay  till  after  dinner. 

Petruchio.     It  may  not  be. 

Gremio.  Let  me  entreat  you. 

Petruchio.     It  cannot  be. 

Katharine.  Let  me  entreat  you. 

Petruchio.     I  am  content. 

Katharine.  Are  you  content  to  stay  ? 

Petruchio.     I  am  content  you  should  entreat  me  stay, 
But  yet  not  stay,  entreat  me  how  you  can. 

Katharine.     Now,  if  you  love  me,  stay. 

Petruchio.  Grumio  !  My  horses. 

Katharine.     Nay,  then. 
Do  what  thou  canst,  I  will  not  go  to-day ; 
No,  nor  to-morrow,  nor  till  I  please  myself. 
The  door  is  open,  sir,  —  there  lies  your  way. 
For  me,  I  '11  not  be  gone  'till  I  please  myself. 
'T  is  like  you  '11  prove  a  jolly  surly  groom, 
That  take  it  on  you  at  the  first  so  roundly. 


Taming  of  the  Shrew,  157 

Petruchio.    O,  Kate,  content  thee  ;  prithee,  be  not  angry. 

Katharine.     I  will  be  angry  !     What  hast  thou  to  do  ? 
Father,  be  quiet !  he  shall  stay  my  leisure. 

Gremio.     Ay,  marry,  sir  ;  now  it  begins  to  work ! 

Katharine.     Gentlemen,  forward  to  the  bridal  dinner ; 
I  see  a  woman  may  be  made  a  fool 
If  she  had  not  the  spirit  to  resist. 

Petruchio.    They  shall  go  forward,  Kate,  at  thy  command. 
Obey  the  bride,  you  that  attend  on  her. 
Go  to  the  feast,  revel  and  domineer. 
Be  mad  and  merry  —  or  go  hang  yourselves  ; 
But  for  my  bonny  Kate,  she  must  with  me. 
Nay,  look  not  big,  nor  stamp,  nor  stare,  nor  fret ; 
I  will  be  master  of  what  is  mine  own. 
She  is  my  goods,  my  chattels ;  she  's  my  house, 
My  household  stuff,  my  field,  my  barn. 
My  horse,  my  ox,  my  ass,  my  anything. 
And  here  she  stands  ;  touch  her  whoever  dare  ! 
I  '11  bring  my  action  on  the  proudest  he 
That  stops  my  way  in  ?adua.     Grumio  ! 
Draw  forth  thy  weapon  ;  we  're  beset  with  thieves  ! 
Rescue  thy  mistress  if  thou  be'st  a  man  ! 
Fear  not,  sweet  wench  ;  they  shall  not  touch  thee,  Kate  ; 
I  '11  buckler  thee  against  a  million. 

\Exeunt  Petruchio^  Katharine,  and  Grumio. 

Act  IV.  Scene  i. 
"  The  wit  and  spirit  of  the  play  increase  perceptibly  after 
we  leave  Padua  and  go  home  with  the  bridal  paii."  Grumio 
is  the  kind  of  old  servant  we  have  all  seen  in  the  Uncle 
Remus  days  on  southern  plantations,  —  an  inveterate  grum- 
bler, but  absolutely  identified  with  his  master  and  all  his 
master's  interests,  except  when  those  interests  interfere  with 
Grumio's  own  notions  of  what  is  due  to  himself.  Kate,  being 
his  master's  wife,  is  now  a  part  of  his  master,  and  as  such  is 
entitled  to  all  reasonable  consideration.  Grumio  never  com- 
plains of  hery  and  doubtless  all  his  life  Katharine  was  faithful 


158  Taming  of  the  Shrew. 

to  him,  and  he  loyal  to  his  mistress.  Nevertheless,  it  is  she 
who  will  have  to  put  up  with  his  sulks  and  his  tantrums,  not 
he  with  hers.  But  here  is  the  scene,  with  the  story  Grumio 
refused  to  tell,  but  told,  pretending  not  to  tell  it.  I  am 
sure  Petruchio  knew  his  Katharine  was  all  safe  before  he 
fell  to  beating  Grumio  because  her  horse  stumbled.  Notice 
the  fun  the  elder  servant  makes  of  Curtis  for  using  pompous 
words. 

Grumio  [entering  a  hall  in  Petruchio' s  country-house].  Fie,  fie,  on 
all  tired  jades  !  on  all  mad  masters !  and  all  foul  ways  !  was  ever  man 
so  beaten  ?  was  ever  man  so  weary  ?  I  am  sent  before  to  make  a 
fire,  and  they  are  coming  after  to  warm  them.     Now,  were  not  I 

A  little  pot, 
And  soon  hot, 

my  very  lips  might  freeze  to  my  teeth,  and  my  tongue  to  the  roof  of  my 
mouth,  my  heart  in  my  belly  ere  I  should  come  by  a  fire  to  thaw  me. 
But  I  with  blowing  the  fire  shall  warm  myself,  for,  considering  the 
weather,  a  taller  man  than  I  will  take  cold.    Holla  !  Ho.  .  a  !     Curtis  ! 

Curtis.     Who  is  that,  calls  so  coldly  ? 

Grumio.  A  piece  of  ice.  If  thou  doubt  it  thou  mayst  slide  from 
my  shoulder  to  my  heel.     A  fire,  good  Curtis ! 

Curtis.     Is  my  master  and  his  wife  coming,  Grumio  ? 

Grumio.     O  !  ay,  Curtis,  and  therefore,  fire  — fire  ! 

Curtis.     Is  she  so  hot  a  shrew  as  she  's  reported  ? 

Grumio.  She  was,  good  Curtis,  before  this  frost.  But  thou 
knowest  winter  tames  man,  woman,  and  beast ;  for  it  hath  tamed  my 
old  master,  and  my  new  mistress,  and  myself,  fellow  Curtis. 

Curtis.     I  prithee,  good  Grumio,  tell  me  —  how  goes  the  world  ? 

Grumio.  A  cold  world,  Curtis,  in  every  office  but  thine,  and  there- 
fore, fire  !  Do  thy  duty,  and  have  thy  duty,  for  my  master  and  mistress 
are  almost  frozen  to  death. 

Curtis.  There's  fire  ready;  and  therefore,  good  Grumio,  the 
news? 

Grumio.  But  where 's  the  cook  ?  Is  supper  ready,  the  house 
trimmed,  rushes  strewed,  cobwebs  swept,  the  serving-men  in  their 
new  fustian,  and  every  officer  his  wedding-garment  on  ?    Be  the  jacks 


Taming  of  the  Shrew.  159 

fair  within,  the  jills  fair  without,  the  carpets  laid,  and  everything 
in  order  ? 

Curtis.     All  ready ;  and  therefore,  I  pray  thee,  news. 

Grumio.  First,  know  my  horse  is  tired,  and  my  master  and  mis- 
tress fallen  out. 

Curtis.     How  ? 

Grumio.  Out  of  their  saddles  into  the  dirt ;  and  thereby  hangs 
a  tale. 

Curtis.     Let 's  ha'  it,  good  Grumio. 

Grumio.    Lend  thine  ear. 

Curtis.     Here. 

Grumio.  There!  {Strikes  him.]  This  cuff  was  but  to  knock  at 
your  ear  and  beseech  listening ;  now  I  '11  begin :  Imprimis,  we 
came  down  a  foul  hill,  my  master  riding  behind  my  mistress.  .  .  . 

Curtis.     Both  on  one  horse  ? 

Grumio.  Tell  thou  the  tale !  —  But  hadst  thou  not  crossed  me, 
thou  shouldst  have  heard  how  her  horse  fell,  and  she  under  her  horse. 
Thou  shouldst  have  heard  in  how  miry  a  place  ;  how  she  was  be- 
moiled ;  how  he  left  her  with  the  horse  upon  her  ;  how  he  beat 
me  because  her  horse  stumbled;  how  she  waded  through  the  dirt 
to  pluck  him  off  me ;  how  he  swore ;  how  she  prayed,  that  never 
prayed  before  ;  how  I  cried ;  how  the  horses  ran  away ;  how  my 
bridle  was  burst ;  how  I  lost  my  crupper,  —  with  many  things  of 
worthy  memory ;  which  now  shall  die  in  oblivion,  and  thou  return  in- 
experienced to  thy  grave. 

Curtis.     By  this  reckoning  he  is  more  shrew  than  she. 

Grumio.  Ay ;  and  that  you  and  the  proudest  of  you  all  shall  find 
when  he  comes  home.  But  what  talk  I  of  this  ?  Call  forth  Nathaniel, 
Joseph,  Nicholas,  Philip,  Walter,  Sugarsop,  and  the  rest.  Let  their 
heads  be  sleekly  combed,  their  blue  coats  brushed,  and  their  garters 
of  an  indifferent  knit.  Let  them  courtesy  with  their  left  legs,  and  not 
presume  to  touch  a  hair  of  my  master's  horse-tail  till  they  kiss  their 
hands.     Are  they  all  ready  ? 

Then  enter  Katharine  and  Petruchio.  The  poor  girl  is  cold, 
weary,  draggled,  hungry,  frightened.  Petruchio  begins  by 
storming  at  the  servants,  whom  he  expected  to  meet  him  in 
the  park,  and  Grumio,  who  has  really  wasted  his  time  telling 
his  story  to  Curtis,  bursts  forth  with  a  string  of  false  excuses. 


i6o  Taming  of  the  Shrew. 

It  is  a  handsome  house,  with  a  park,  and  retainers  in  abun- 
dance, that  the  bridegroom  has  brought  his  Kate  to.  She 
has  married  a  good  fellow  and  a  gentleman, — a  rich  man, 
well  considered,  and  a  man  of  wit  and  parts  fully  equal  to  her 
own.  She  has  made  an  excellent  match,  when  she  could 
not  have  expected  it,  and  had  almost  made  up  her  mind 
that  she  was  to  die  single ;  and  now  he  is  going  to  show  her 
how  ill-temper  can  mar  everything.  He  loses  no  time  in 
calling  for  supper,  over  which  (though  she  is  to  eat  none 
of  it)  poor  Kate  is  invited  to  say  grace. 

Petruchio.     Go  rascals,  go,  and  fetch  my  supper  in 

\Sings:\     Where  is  the  life  that  late  I  led  ? 
Where  are  those  —  Sit  down,  Kate,  and  welcome. 

[Re-enter  servants,  with  supper. 
Nay,  good,  sweet  Kate,  be  merry. 
Off  with  my  boots,  you  rogues  !  you  villains !  When .-' 

[Sings.']     It  was  the  friar  of  orders  gray, 

As  he  forth  walked  upon  his  way  — 
Out !  out !  you  rogue,  you  pluck  my  foot  awry. 

[Strikes  him.']     Take  that,  and  mend  the  pluckmg  off  the  other. 
Be  merry,  Kate.     Some  water  here  !     What,  ho  ! 
Where's  my  spaniel,  Troilus  .?     Sirrah,  get  you  hence, 
And  bid  my  cousin  Ferdinand  come  hither,  — 
One,  Kate,  that  you  must  kiss,  and  be  acquainted  with. 
Where  are  my  slippers  ?     Shall  I  have  some  water  ? 
Come,  Kate,  and  wash,  and  welcome  heartily. 

[Servant  lets  the  ewer  fall.    Strikes  him. 

Katharine.     Patience,  I  pray  you  ;  't  was  a  fault  unwilling. 

Petruchio.    A  careless,  beetle-headed,  flap-eared  knave. 
Come,  Kate,  sit  down  ;  I  know  you  have  a  stomach. 
Will  you  give  thanks,  sweet  Kate,  or  else  shall  I  ? 
What  is  this  —  mutton  ? 

I  Servant,  Ay. 

Petruchio.  Who  brought  it  ? 

I  Servant.  I. 

Petruchio.    'T  is  burnt ;  and  so,  I  swear,  is  all  the  meat ! 
What  dogs  are  these  t  —  where  is  the  rascal  cook  ? 


Taming  of  the  Shrew,  i6i 

How  durst  you,  villains,  bring  it  from  the  dresser, 
And  serve  it  thus  to  me  who  love  it  not  ? 
There  \  take  it  to  you,  trenchers,  cups,  and  all  1 

[  Throws  the  meat,  etc.,  about  the  stage. 
You  heedless  jolt-heads  and  unmannered  slaves ! 
What,  do  you  grumble  ?     I  '11  be  with  you  straight ! 

Katharine.     I  pray  you,  husband,  be  not  so  disquiet ; 
The  meat  was  well,  if  you  were  so  contented. 

Petriichio.     I  tell  thee,  Kate,  't  was  burnt,  and  dried  away, 
And  I  expressly  am  forbid  to  touch  it ; 
For  it  engenders  choler,  planteth  anger. 
And  better  't  were  that  both  of  us  did  fast,  — 
Since  of  ourselves,  ourselves  are  choleric,  — 
Than  feed  it  with  such  over-roasted  flesh. 
Be  patient ;  to-morrow  it  shall  be  mended. 
And  for  this  night  we  '11  fast  for  company. 
Come,  I  will  bring  thee  to  thy  bridal  chamber. 

\Exeunt  Fetruchio,  Kathariney  and  Curtis. 

Nathaniel  [advancing].     Peter,  didst  ever  see  the  like  ? 

Peter.     He  kills  her  in  her  own  humor. 

{^Re-enter  Curtis. 

Grumio.     Where  is  he  .? 

Curtis.     In  her  chamber,  making  a  sermon  to  her. 
And  rails  and  swears  and  rates,  that  she,  poor  fool, 
Knows  not  which  way  to  stand,  to  look,  to  speak. 
And  sits  as  one  new-risen  from  a  dream. 

Scene  2. 

Now  we  return  to  Padua,  to  Baptista's  house,  where  Tranio 
(the  false  Lucentio)  brings  Hortensio  to  hear  the  real  Lu- 
centio  making  love  to  Bianca.  Hortensio,  disgusted  at  her 
carrying  on  a  flirtation  with  a  mere  music  master,  swears  to 
give  her  up  if  Tranio  (the  false  Lucentio)  will  too.  The 
littleness  of  Hortensio  comes  out  at  every  word,  as  the  want 
of  the  true  gentleman  does  in  Tranio.  After  Hortensio  goes 
out  the  whole  party  seem  to  be  in  league  with  one  another. 
Biondello  rushes  in  with  news  that  he  has  seen  an  old  travel- 


1 62  Taming  of  the  Shrew, 

ler  coming  into  town  who  will  do  to  personate  Vincentio, 
Lucentio's  father ;  and  Tranio  carries  out  his  lackey's  plot, 
persuading  an  old  pedant,  on  his  way  to  Tripoli  (where  much 
Arab  learning  was  to  be  acquired  in  those  days),  to  come  to, 
his  house  and  to  personate  Vincentio. 

Scene  3. 

We  go  back  to  Petruchio's  country-seat,  and  find  poor 
Katharine  beseeching  Grumio  to  get  her  a  morsel  to  eat ;  but 
she  is  in  a  house  where  all  are  faithful  to  the  master.  It  was 
cruel  to  mock  her  with  the  mustard,  but  let  us  hope  Grumio 
knew  that  her  dinner  was  soon  coming. 

Grumio.     No,  no,  forsooth  ;  I  dare  not,  for  my  life. 

Katharine.     The  more  my  wrong,  the  more  his  spite  appears. 
What !  did  he  marry  me  to  famish  me  "i 
Beggars  that  come  unto  my  father's  door 
Upon  entreaty  have  a  present  alms ; 
If  not,  elsewhere  they  meet  with  charity. 
But  I  —  who  never  knew  how  to  entreat, 
Nor  never  needed  what  I  should  entreat  — 
Am  starved  for  meat,  giddy  for  lack  of  sleep. 
With  oaths  kept  waking,  and  with  brawling  fed. 
And  that  which  spites  me  more  than  all  these  wants, 
He  does  it  under  name  of  perfect  love ; 
As  who  should  say,  if  I  should  sleep  or  eat 
'T  were  deadly  sickness,  or  't  were  present  death. 
I  prithee  go  and  get  me  some  repast,  — 
I  care  not  what,  so  it  be  wholesome  food. 

Grumio.     What  say  you  to  a  neat's  foot  ? 

Katharine.     'T  is  passing  good.     I  pray  you  let  me  have  it. 

Grumio.     I  fear  it  is  too  choleric  a  meat,  — 
How  say  you  to  a  fat  tripe  finely  broiled  .>* 

Katharine.    I  like  it  well ;  good  Grumio,  fetch  it  me. 

Grumio.     I  cannot  tell ;  I  fear  't  is  choleric. 
What  say  you  to  a  piece  of  beef  and  mustard  ? 

Katharine.     A  dish  that  I  do  love  to  feed  upon. 


Taming  of  the  Shrew,  163 

— — % 

Grumio.     Ay,  but  the  mustard  is  too  hot  a  little. 

Katharine.     Why,  then,  the  beef,  and  let  the  mustard  rest. 

Grumio.     Nay,  then,  I  will  not ;  you  shall  have  the  mustard, 
Or  else  you  get  no  beef  from  Grumio. 

Katharine.     Then  both,  or  one,  or  anything  thou  wilt. 

Grumio.     Why,  then,  the  mustard  without  the  beef. 

Katharine  [beating  him\.     Go,  get  thee  gone,  thou  false  deluding 
knave, 
That  feed'st  me  with  the  very  name  of  meat. 
Sorrow  on  thee,  and  all  the  pack  of  you. 
That  triumph  thus  upon  my  misery  ! 
Go  !  get  thee  gone,  I  say. 

\Enter  Petruchio,  with  a  dish  of  meat,  and  Hortensio. 

Petruchio.     How  fares  my  Kate .''     What,  sweeting,  all  amort  .-* 

Hortensio.     Mistress,  what  cheer  } 

Katharine.  Faith,  as  cold  as  can  be. 

Petruchio.     Pluck  up  thy  spirits,  look  cheerfully  upon  me. 
Here,  love,  thou  seest  how  diligent  I  am, 
To  dress  the  meat  myself,  and  bring  it  thee. 
I  am  sure,  sweet  Kate,  this  kindness  merits  thanks. 
What,  not  a  word .''     Nay,  then,  thou  lov'st  it  not ; 
And  all  my  pains  is  sorted  to  no  proof; 
Here !  take  away  this  dish. 

Katharine.  Pray  you,  let  it  stand. 

Petruchio.     The  poorest  service  is  repaid  with  thanks  ^ 
And  so  shall  mine,  before  you  touch  the  meat. 

Katharine.     I  thank  you,  sir. 

Hortensio.     Signior  Petruchio,  fie  !  —  you  are  to  blame  ; 
Come,  Mistress  Kate,  I  '11  bear  you  company. 

Petruchio  [aside].     Eat  it  all  up,  Hortensio,  if  you  love  me. 
Much  good  do  it,-  Kate,  to  thy  gentle  heart, 
But  eat  apace.     And  now,  my  bonny  love, 
Will  we  return  unto  thy  father's  house, 
And  revel  it  as  bravely  as  the  best,  — 
With  silken  coats,  and  caps,  and  golden  rings ; 
With  ruflfs,  and  cuffs,  and  fardingales,  and  things  ; 
With  scarfs,  and  fans,  and  double  change  of  bravery ; 
With  amber  bracelets,  beads  and  all  this  knavery. 
What,  hast  thou  dined  ?    The  tailor  stays  thy  leisure, 
To  deck  thy  body  with  his  ruffling  treasure. 


164  Taming  of  the  Shrew. 

One  hardly  knows  what  brought  Hortensio  to  that  country 
place,  unless  it  were  that,  wanting  to  draw  off  from  Bianca,  he 
sought  Petruchio  as  one  who  was  under  obligation  to  him. 
He  was  petty  enough,  too,  to  be  willing  to  indulge  a  prying 
curiosity.  Now  comes  the  inimitable  scene  with  the  tailor 
and  haberdasher.  Kate  is  not  wholly  tamed.  Two  things 
embolden  her,  —  the  dinner  she  has  eaten,  and  the  presence 
of  Hortensio.  It  is  wonderful  how  the  presence  of  one  who 
we  are  sure  must  be  thinking  us  ill-used  will  give  us  courage. 
Observe,  Petruchio  will  wrong  no  man  by  his  capers  ;  the  tai- 
lor is  to  be  assured  at  once  he  will  be  fully  paid.  Haber- 
dasher, by  the  way,  is  a  term  still  used  in  England  for 
one  who  sells  silk  goods,  ribands,  etc. ;  but  it  appears  in 
Shakspeare's  time  to  have  been  the  synonyme  for  a  man- 
milliner. 

Haberdasher.    Here  is  the  cap  your  worship  did  bespeak. 

Petruchio.     Why,  this  was  moulded  on  a  porringer  I 
A  velvet  dish  !     Fie,  fie.  .  .  . 
Why,  't  is  a  cockle,  or  a  walnut-shell, 
A  knack,  a  toy,  a  trick,  a  baby's  cap  ; 
Away  with  it ;  come,  let  me  have  a  bigger. 

Katharine.     I  '11  have  no  bigger  ;  this  doth  fit  the  time, 
And  gentlewomen  wear  such  caps  as  these. 

Petruchio.     When  you  are  gentle  you  shall  have  one  too, 
And  not  till  then. 

Here  breaks  in  Hortensio,  with  an  aside,  "  That  will  not 
be  in  haste."  A  few  days  before  he  would  have  spoken  this 
aloud,  with  a  sneer ;  now  Katharine  is  protected  from  imperti- 
nence. 

Katharine.     Why,  sir,  I  trust  I  may  have  leave  to  speak  ; 
And  speak  I  will.     I  am  no  child,  no  babe  ; 
Your  betters  have  endured  me  say  my  mind, 
And  if  you  cannot,  best  you  stop  your  ears. 


Taming  of  the  Shrew.  165 


My  tongue  will  tell  the  anger  of  my  heart ; 
Or  else  my  heart  concealing  it,  will  break. 
And  rather  than  it  shall,  I  will  be  free, 
E'en  to  the  uttermost — as  I  please  —  in  words. 

Petruchio.     Why,  thou  say'st  true ;  it  is  a  paltry  cap, 
A  custard  coffin,  a  bauble,  a  silken  pie ; 
I  love  thee  well  in  that  thou  lik'st  it  not. 

Katharine.     Love  me,  or  love  me  not,  I  like  the  cap, 
And  I  will  have  it,  or  I  will  have  none. 

Petruchio.    Thy  gown  ?  why,  ay.     Come,  tailor,  let  us  see  it. 

0  !  mercy !  heavens !  what  masking  stuff  is  here  t 
What 's  this  "i  —  a  sleeve  ?  't  is  like  a  demi-cannon. 
What !  up  and  down,  carved  like  an  apple-tart ! 
Here  's  snip,  and  nip,  and  cut,  and  slish,  and  slash, 
Like  to  a  censer  in  a  barber's  shop. 

Why,  what  o'  devil's  name,  tailor,  call'st  thou  this  ? 

Tailor.     You  bid  me  make  it  orderly  and  well. 
According  to  the  fashion  and  the  time. 

Petruchio.     Marry,  I  did ;  but  if  you  be  remembered, 

1  did  not  bid  you  mar  it  to  the  time. 
Go !  hop  me  over  every  kennel  home. 
For  you  shall  hop  without  my  custom,  sir ; 

I  '11  none  of  it.     Hence,  make  the  best  of  it ! 

Katharine.     I  never  saw  a  better-fashioned  gown,  — 
More  quaint,  more  pleasing,  nor  more  commendable. 
Belike  you  mean  to  make  a  puppet  of  me  ? 

Petruchio.     Why,  true  ;  he  means  to  make  a  puppet  of  thee. 

Tailor.     She  says  your  worship  means  to  make  a  puppet  of  her. 

Petruchio.     O !  monstrous  arrogance !     Thou  liest,  thou  thread. 
Thou  thimble. 

Thou  yard,  three  quarters,  half  yard,  quarter,  nail,  — 
Thou  flea,  thou  nit,  thou  winter  cricket  thou,  — 
Braved  in  mine  own  house  with  a  skein  of  thread  I 
Away,  thou  rag,  thou  quantity,  thou  remnant, 
Or  I  shall  so  be-mete  thee  with  thy  yard 
As  thou  shalt  think  on  prating  while  thou  Hvest. 
I  tell  thee,  I,  that  thou  hast  marred  her  gown. 

Tailor.     Your  worship  is  deceived  ;  the  gown  is  made 
Just  as  my  master  had  direction. 
Grumio  gave  order  how  it  should  be  done. 


1 66  Taming  of  the  Shrew, 

Grumio.     I  gave  him  no  order  ;  I  gave  him  the  stuff. 

Tailor.     How  did  you  desire  it  should  be  made  ? 

Grumio.     Marry,  sir,  with  needle  and  thread. 

Tailor.     But  did  you  not  request  to  have  it  cut  ? 

Grumio.  I  bid  thy  master  cut  out  the  gown,  but  I  did  not  bid 
him  cut  it  to  pieces. 

Tailor.     Why,  here  is  the  note  of  the  fashion  to  testify. 

Petruchio.    Read  it. 

Tailor.     Imprimis^  a  loose-bodied  gown.  .  .  . 

Grumio.  Master,  if  ever  I  said  loose-bodied  gown,  sew  me  in 
the  skirts  of  it,  and  beat  me  to  death  with  a  hank  of  brown  thread ;  I 
said  a  gown. 

Petruchio.     Proceed. 

Tailor.     With  a  small  compassed  cape.  .  .  . 

Grumio,    I  confess  the  cape. 

Tailor.     With  a  trunk  sleeve.  .  . 

Grumio.     I  confess  two  sleeves. 

Tailor.    The  sleeves  curiously  cut.  .  .  . 

Petruchio.    Ay,  there 's  the  villany ! 

Grumio.  Error  in  the  bill,  sir  —  error  in  the  bill.  I  commanded 
the  sleeves  should  be  cut  out  and  sewed  up  again,  and  that  I  '11  prove 
upon  thee,  tailor's  boy,  though  thy  little  finger  be  armed  with  a 
thimble.  .  .  . 

Petruchio  [aside],     Hortensio,  say  thou  wilt  see  the  tailor  paid.  — 
[Aloud.]     Go  !  take  it  hence  ;  begone,  and  say  no  more. 
Well,  come,  my  Kate,  we  will  unto  your  father's 
E'en  in  these  honest,  mean  habiliments. 
Our  purses  shall  be  proud,  our  garments  poor  ; 
For  't  is  the  mind  .that  makes  the  body  rich ; 
And,  as  the  sun  breaks  through  the  darkest  clouds, 
So  honor  peereth  in  the  meanest  habit. 
What,  is  the  jay  more  precious  than  the  lark 
Because  his  feathers  are  more  beautiful  ? 
Or  is  the  adder  better  than  the  eel 
Because  his  painted  skin  contents  the  eye  ? 
O,  no,  good  Kate.     Neither  art  thou  the  worse 
For  this  poor  furniture  and  mean  array. 
If  thou  account'st  it  shame  lay  it  on  me  ; 
And  therefore,  frolic.     We  will  hence  forthwith, 
To  feast  and  sport  us  at  thy  father's  house. 


Taming  of  the  Shrew.  167 

Go  call  my  men,  and  let  us  straight  to  him. 
And  bring  our  horses  unto  Long-lane  end  ; 
There  will  we  mount,  and  thither  walk  afoot. 
Let 's  see.     I  think  't  is  now  some  seven  o"'clock, 
And  well  we  may  come  there  by  dinner-time. 

Katharine.     I  dare  assure  you,  sir,  't  is  almost  two, 
And  't  will  be  supper-time  ere  you  come  there. 

Petricchio.    It  shall  be  seven  ere  I  go  to  horse. 
Look !  what  I  speak,  or  do,  or  think  to  do, 
You  are  still  crossing  it.     Sirs,  let't  alone; 
I  will  not  go  to-day.     And  ere  I  do, 
It  shall  be  what  o'clock  I  say  it  is. 

Hortensio.     Why,  so  !  this  gallant  will  command  the  sun  ! 

And  on  this  hint  does  Petruchio  subsequently  act.  Ob- 
serve throughout  his  speech  he  makes  points  on  which  he 
expects  Katharine  will  oppose  him.  They  will  go  in  shabby 
clothes,  —  she  says  nothing;  fine  clothes  are  no  better 
than  mean  ones,  —  she  does  not  contradict  him ;  she  must 
frolic,  though  little  inclined  for  it,  —  she  accepts  the  sugges- 
tion ;  they  will  walk  through  the  mud  to  Long-lane's  end, 
—  she  makes  no  objection  ;  nor  does  she  speak  till  she  gently 
sets  him  right  as  to  the  clock,  and  then  he  turns  upon  her 
with  the  only  unkind  thing  he  has  ever  said  to  her,  —  putting 
himself  so  glaringly  and  unmistakably  in  the  wrong  that  she 
has  the  comfort  of  now  perceiving  the  drift  of  all  his  former 
unaccountable  behavior. 

Sce7ie  4. 

This  scene  discloses  a  plot  for  Bianca's  betrothal  to  the 
false  Lucentio,  and  suggests  to  the  real  Lucentio  a  plan  for 
carrying  her  off.  But  for  that  I  strongly  suspect  Tranio 
would  have  out-witted  his  young  master  in  their  "httle 
game." 


1 68  Taming  of  the  Shrew. 

Scene  5. 

This  scene  takes  place  upon  a  public  road,  on  which  are 
travelling  Petruchio,  his  wife,  and  Hortensio. 

Petruchio.     Come   on,    o'  Heaven's  name ;   once  more  toward 
our  father's. 
Good  Lord  !  how  bright  and  goodly  shines  the  moon  ! 

Katharine.     The  moon  ? —  the  sun.     It  is  not  moonlight  now. 

Petruchio.     I  say  it  is  the  moon  that  shines  so  bright. 

Katharine.     I  know  it  is  the  sun  that  shines  so  bright. 

Petruchio.    Now,  by  my  mother's  son,  and  that 's  myself, 
It  shall  be  moon  or  star,  or  what  I  list. 
Or  e'er  I  journey  to  your  father's  house. 
Go  on,  and  fetch  our  horses  back  again. 
Evermore  crossed  and  crossed,  —  nothing  but  crossed  ! 

Hortensio.     Say  as  he  says,  or  we  shall  never  go. 

Katharine.     Forward,  I  pray,  since  we  have  come  so  far,  — 
And  be  it  moon,  or  sun,  or  what  you  please ; 
And  if  you  please  to  call  it  a  rush-candle 
Henceforth  I  vow  it  shall  be  so  for  me. 

Petruchio.     I  say  it  is  the  moon. 

Katharine.  I  know  it  is. 

Petruchio.     Nay,  then  you  lie ;  it  is  the  blessed  sun. 

Katharine.     Then,  Heaven  be  blest ;  it  is  the  blessed  sun,  — 
But  sun  it  is  not  when  you  say  it  is  not ; 
And  the  moon  changes  even  as  your  mind. 
What  you  will  have  it  named,  e'en  that  it  is, 
And  so  it  shall  be  so  for  Katharine. 

By  this  time  I  think  Katharine  has  comprehended  the 
situation,  and  has  grown  ready  to  play  her  part  in  it.  She 
has  begun  to  love  and  trust  her  husband,  and  gives  in  to  his 
humor.  As  Petruchio  says,  "  now  the  ball  (or  bowl)  does 
not  run  against  the  bias ;  "  Kate  is  entering  into  the  fun  of 
the  thing. 

The  writer  in  the  *'  Monthly  Packet "  says  :  "  It  is  all  non- 
sense to  talk  as  if  this  bit  of  merry  comedy  expresses  Shaks- 


Taming  of  the  Shrew.  169 

peare's  serious  ideas  of  the  proper  relations  between  husband 
and  wife ;  for  when  both  are  drawn  in  exaggerated  style 
throughout  how  can  we  be  expected  to  take  their  sayings 
literally?  Petruchio's  comic  demands  are  matched  by 
Katharine's  comic  submission,  and  there  is  consistency  in 
making  her  go  to  the  furthest  extreme.  When  once  she 
gives  in  at  all  she  is  just  the  creature  to  have  no  medium. 
Besides,  she  has  learned  to  take  a  joke  by  this  time,  and  in- 
stead of  getting  angry,  she  meets  her  mad-cap  husband  on 
his  own  ground,  and  gayly  tells  him  she  will  call  the  sun  a 
rush-candle  rather  than  fight  about  it  j  which  is  surely  a  for- 
cible way  of  expressing  that  she  has  recovered  control  of  the 
temper  which  has  so  long  run  riot,  and  has  begun  to  love  the 
man  who  forced  her  to  conquer  that  fiend.  After  having 
managed  herself  so  badly  Kate  seems  to  find  a  relief  in  let- 
ting herself  drop  completely  into  Petruchio's  rough,  but  not 
unkindly  hands." 

Thus,  when  old  Vincentio  appears,  travelling  on  the  high- 
way, Petruchio  accosts  him  :  — 

Good  morrow,  gentle  mistress.     Whither  away  ? 
Tell  me,  sweet  Kate,  and  tell  me  truly  too, 
Hast  thou  beheld  a  fresher  gentlewoman  ? 
Such  war  of  white  and  red  within  her  cheeks  ! 
What  stars  do  spangle  heaven  with  such  beauty 
As  those  two  eyes  become  that  heavenly  face ! 
Fair,  lovely  maid,  once  more  good-day  to  thee  ; 
Sweet  Kate,  embrace  her  for  her  beauty's  sake. 

Hortensio,  utterly  incapable  of  a  joke,  is  aghast  at  this 
proposition.     But  Kate  smilingly  takes  it  up,  saying  :* — 

Young,  budding  virgin,  fair,  and  fresh,  and  sweet. 
Whither  away,  or  where  is  thy  abode  } 
Happy  the  parents  of  so  fair  a  child,  — 


170  Taming  of  the  Shrew, 

Happier  the  man  whom  favorable  stars 
Allot  thee  for  his  lovely  bed-fellow. 

Petruchio.     Why,  how  now,  Kate  ?  I  hope  thou  art  not  mad! 
This  is  a  man,  old,  wrinkled,  faded,  withered, 
And  not  a  maiden,  as  thou  sayest  he  is. 

Katharine.     Pardon,  old  father,  my  mistaking  eyes. 
That  have  been  so  bedazzled  with  the  sun 
That  everything  I  look  on  seemeth  green. 
M  ow  I  perceive  thou  art  a  reverend  father ; 
Pardon,  I  pray  thee,  for  my  mad  mistaking, 

Petruchio.     Do,  good  old  grandsire,  and  withal  make  known 
Which  way  thou  travellest.     If  along  with  us 
We  shall  be  joyful  of  thy  company. 

/'  To  please  Petruchio,  Katharine  has  caught  up  his  wild 
jest  on  Vincentio,  startling  the  good  old  man  with  her  strange 
salutation,  and  then  apologizing  neatly  and  prettily.  Indeed, 
from  this  point  a  gentler  grace  comes  over  the  young  beauty, 
as  if  her  whole  nature  had  become  refined  by  the  removal 
of  the  one  blot,  till  we  hardly  recognize  the  virago  of  the 
first  scenes."  But  now  her  surroundings  are  so  different. 
Instead  of  being  with  people  who  misunderstand  her,  and 
are  always  ready  to  deprecate  and  to  depreciate  her,  she 
is  freed  from  them,  and  subject  only  to  a  man  whom  she 
can  thoroughly  trust,  and  with  whom  she  is  rapidly  becom- 
ing in  harmony.  Compare  Petruchio  with  Mr.  Rochester 
(at  one  time  the  model  hero  of  women  novelists).  The  one 
is  wholly  selfish,  playing  upon  Jane  for  his  own  sake,  forget- 
ful of  others'  claims  and  rights,  brutal  in  his  strength,  un- 
certain in  his  disposition,  —  nay,  not  sure  of  his  own  mind, 
and,  to  my  thinking,  no  gentleman,  —  drawn,  indeed,  by  one 
who  when  she  wrote  never  had  had  the  opportunity  to 
study  a  gentleman.  Is  he  like  our  Petruchio?  See  how, 
the  moment  Petruchio  is  assured  of  victory  (a  victory  he 
has  won   for  Kate's    best   good),  he  "  drops    his    fantastic 


Taming  of  the  Shrew,  171 

behavior,  and  treats  Vincentio  with  a  frank  courtesy,  contrast- 
ing strongly  with  his  assumed  violence." 

Act  V.     Scene  i. 

All  the  threads  of  the  story  are  drawing  together.  Lu- 
centio  and  Bianca  creep  down  the  street  to  get  married, 
having  been  warned  by  Biondello  against  Tranio,  who  gives 
his  master  his  advice  in  these  quaint  words :  "  I  knew  a 
wench  married  in  an  afternoon  as  she  went  to  the  garden 
for  parsley  to  stuff  a  rabbit,  and  so  may  you,  sir."  On  their 
way  to  the  church  they  pass  Gremio  in  the  darkness.  The 
sham  Vincentio,  an  old  pedant,  is  engaged  with  Baptista  in 
drawing  up  the  marriage-contract  in  the  house  of  Tranio ; 
while  the  party  of  Petruchio,  with  the  real  Vincentio  in  com- 
pany, come  along  the  street,  and  Petruchio  courteously 
points  out  to  the  old  man  where  he  whom  he  believes  to 
be  Lucentio,  lives. 

Then  comes  a  complication ;  for  when  Vincentio  knocks  at 
his  son's  door  and  announces  himself  as  his  father,  the 
pedant  looks  out  of  the  window,  utterly  denies  that  he  has 
any  claim  to  such  relationship,  and  desires  to  have  him 
arrested.  "  Now  we  are  undone,"  cries  the  lackey  Bion- 
dello, recognizing  his  master.  A  flat  lie  being  a  menial's 
easiest  way  out  of  a  scrape,  Biondello  sticks  to  it  that  he 
never  in  his  life  had  seen  his  old  master,  and  the  scene 
grows  so  comical  that  Petruchio  says :  "  Prithee,  Kate,  let 's 
stand  aside  and  see  the  end  of  this  controversy." 

Then  comes  forward  Tranio,  and  old  Vincentio,  seeing  his 
fine  dress,  bursts  out  upon  him  :  — 

O  immortal  gods  I  O  fine  villain  I  A  silken  doublet !  a  scarlet 
cloak!    a  conical    hatl     Ol    I  am  undone,  I  am  undone  I     While  I 


172  Taming  of  the  Shrew, 

play  the  good  husband  [care-taker]  at  home,  my  son  and  my  servant 
spend  all  at  the  university. 

Tranio  brazens  it  out.  He  asserts  that  old  Vincentio  is 
mad.  Bianca  and  Lucentio  come  in  as  Vincentio  is  being 
carried  off  to  prison,  Biondello,  the  lackey,  seeing  his  young 
master,  cries  to  him  in  mortal  terror,  "  O  !  we  are  ruined  !  — 
and  yonder  there  he  is  !  Deny  him,  forswear  him,  or  else 
we  are  all  undone  !  " 

But  Lucentio  does  not  this  time  heed  his  advice.  He 
rushes  to  Vincentio  and  kneeling  down  before  him,  prays  his 
pardon.  An  explanation  ensues  all  round,  but  Vincentio  is 
furious  against  that  "  damned  villain  Tranio,"  son  of  a  sail- 
maker,  a  fellow  brought  up  in  his  house  ever  since  he  was 
three  years  old. 

Next  follows  a  pretty  little  scene,  almost  a  love-scene, 
between  Petruchio  and  his  Kate :  — 

Kathariru.  Husband,  let 's  follow  to  see  the  end  of  this  ado. 

Petruchio.  First  kiss  me,  Kate,  and  we  will. 

Katharine.  What !  in  the  midst  of  the  street  ? 

Petruchio.  What !  art  thou  ashamed  of  me  ? 

Katharine.  No,  sir,  God  forbid ;  but  ashamed  to  kiss. 

Petruchio.  Why,  then  let 's  home  again.    Come,  sirrah,  let 's  away. 

Katharine.  Nay,  I  '11  give  thee  a  kiss ;  now,  prithee,  love,  stay. 

Petruchio.  Is  not  this  well  ?    Come,  my  sweet  Kate, 
Better  once  than  never,  for  never  too  late. 

Scene  2. 

Then  comes  the  banquet  scene  at  Baptista's  house. 
Hortensio's  "  widow "  is  a  low-minded,  vulgar,  impudent 
woman,  who  is  going  entirely  to  govern  her  weak  husband, 
and  who  seeks  the  earUest  opportunity  of  making  herself 
disagreeable  to  his  friend  Petruchio.  Her  first  gibe  at 
the  bride,  who  is  supposed  to  be  going  to  lead  her  hus- 


Taming  of  the  Shrew.  173 

band  a  rough  road,  rouses  Katharine.  She  had  been  ac- 
customed to  such  speeches  all  her  life,  but  in  her  new 
home  she  had  almost  forgotten  them.  Now  she  has  a 
husband  by  her  side  to  take  her  part,  to  stand  by  and 
strengthen  her.  The  widow  is  afraid  of  the  combination 
and  gives  in.  Then  follows  the  famous  wager.  The  ladies 
having  retired  to  the  withdrawing-room,  Tranio  turns  to 
Petruchio,  and  with  unblushing  impudence  makes  a  jest 
about  his  choice  of  a  wife  :  — 

'T  is  well,  sir,  that  j(7«  hunted  for  yourself, 

'T  is  thought  your  deer  does  hold  you  at  a  bay. 

Petruchio  receives  this  impertinence  outwardly  unruffled. 
Baptista,  very  indifferent  about  his  daughter's  honor, 
breaks  in :  — 

0  ho,  Petruchio,  Tranio  hits  you  now. 

Lucentio.     I  thank  thee  for  that  gird,  good  Tranio. 

Hortensio.     Confess,  confess,  hath  he  not  hit  you  here  ? 

Petruchio.    'A  has  a  little  galled  me,  I  confess. 
And  as  the  jest  did  glance  away  from  me, 
'T  is  ten  to  one  it  maimed  you  two  outright. 

Baptista.     Now,  in  good  sadness,  son  Petruchio, 

1  think  thou  hast  the  veriest  shrew  of  all. 

Petruchio.     Well,  /say,  No;  and  therefore,  for  assurance, 
Let 's  each  one  send  unto  his  wife, 
And  he  whose  wife  is  most  obedient 
To  come  at  first  when  he  doth  send  for  her, 
Shall  win  the  wager  which  we  shall  propose. 

The  wager  is  settled  at  one  hundred  crowns,  —  Petruchio 
declaring  that  though  he  might  venture  a  small  sum  upon 
hawk  or  hound,  he  is  willing  to  stake  twenty  times  so  much 
upon  his  wife.  Lucentio  first  sends  for  Bianca;  Biondello 
returns  with  the  answer,  "  My  mistress  sends  you  word  that 
she  is  busy."      Hortensio   then    sends   to   his   wife,  "the 


174  Taming  of  the  Shrew, 

widow."  The  messenger  reports,  "She  says  you  have  some 
goodly  jest  in  hand.  She  will  not  come,  she  bids  you  go  to 
her."  Then  Petruchio  despatches  Grumio  with  his  message 
to  Katharine.  To  the  amazement  of  the  other  husbands, 
Katharine  comes  in  promptly  with,  "  What  is  your  will,  sir, 
that  you  send  for  me?"  Petruchio  requires  her  to  go  back 
to  where  Bianca  and  Hortensio's  wife  are  sitting  by  the  fire, 
and  bring  them  with  her. 

Lucentio.     Here  is  a  wonder,  if  you  talk  of  wonder. 

Hortensio.     And  so  it  is  ;  I  wonder  what  it  bodes. 

P^ruchio.    Marry,  peace  it  bodes,  and  love,  and  quiet  life, 
And  awe-full  rule,  and  right  supremacy  : 
And,  to  be  short,  all  that  is  sweet  and  happy. 

It  is  to  be  hoped  that  Lucentio  and  Hortensio,  stimulated 
by  the  example  of  Petruchio,  did  not  attempt  to  imitate  him. 
As  Bro'  Terrapin  says  to  Bro'  Fox,  "  Yo'  has  n't  de  wisdom 
—  no,  an'  yo'  hasn't  de  strength,"  —  no,  and  they  hadn't 
the  same  fine  material  to  work  upon.  Katharine  was  made 
of  very  different  stuff  from  their  coarser  women. 

When  Katharine  enters,  bringing  "the  froward  wives  as 
prisoners  to  her  womanly  persuasion,"  Petruchio's  first  com- 
mand to  her  is  to  fling  off  her  cap.  She  knows  some  jest 
must  be  afoot,  she  knows  too  there  are  other  caps  where  that 
came  from,  she  is  pleased  to  please  Petruchio,  and  to  second 
him  in  his  new  fancy.  She  flings  her  cap  upon  the  floor. 
The  widow  cries,  — 

Lord,  let  me  never  have  a  cause  to  sigh, 
Till  I  be  brought  to  such  a  silly  pass  I 

And  Bianca  exclaims,  "Why,  what  a  foolish  duty  call  you 
this  ?  "     Her  husband  answers  her :  — 


Taming  of  the  Shrew.  175 

I  would  your  duty  were  as  foolish  too ; 
The  wisdom  of  your  duty,  fair  Bianca, 
Hath  cost  me  a  hundred  crowns  since  supper-time. 

Then  Petruchio  desires  Katharine  to  instruct  these  brides 
in  their  duty  to  their  husbands  out  of  her  new  experience. 
Katharine  turns  to  Hortensio's  wife,  who  is  glaring  at  her 
lord  with  angry  eyes. 

Katharine.     Fie,  fie !  unknit  that  threatening,  unkind  brow 
And  dart  not  scornful  glances  from  those  eyes, 
To  wound  thy  lord,  thy  king,  thy  governor. 
It  blots  thy  beauty,  as  frosts  bite  the  meads  ; 
Confounds  thy  fame,  as  whirlwinds  shake  fair  buds ; 
And  in  no  sense  is  meet  or  amiable. 
A  woman  moved  is  like  a  fountain  troubled, 
Muddy,  ill-seeming,  thick,  bereft  of  beauty; 
And  while  it  is  so,  none  so  dry  or  thirsty 
Will  deign  to  sip,  or  touch  one  drop  of  it. 
Thy  husband  is  thy  lord,  thy  life,  thy  keeper, 
Thy  head,  thy  sovereign,  —  one  that  cares  for  thee 
And  for  thy  maintenance  ;  commits  his  body 
To  painful  labor,  both  by  sea  and  land, 
To  watch  the  night  in  storms,  the  day  in  cold, 
While  thou  liest  warm  at  home,  secure  and  safe  ; 
And  craves  no  other  tribute  at  thy  hands 
But  love,  fair  looks,  and  true  obedience, — 
Too  little  payment  for  so  great  a  debt. 
Such  duty  as  the  subject  owes  the  prince, 
E'en  such  a  woman  oweth  to  her  husband. 
And  when  she's  froward,  peevish,  sullen,  sour, 
And  not  obedient  to  his  honest  will, 
What  is  she  but  a  foul,  contending  rebel, 
And  graceless  traitor  to  her  loving  lord  ? 
I  am  ashamed  that  women  are  so  simple 
To  offer  war  where  they  should  kneel  for  peace  ; 
Or  seek  for  rule,  supremacy,  and  sway. 
Where  they  are  bound  to  serve,  love,  and  obey. 
Why  are  our  bodies  soft,  and  weak,  and  smooth, 
Unapt  to  toil  and  trouble  in  the  world, 


176  Taming  of  the  Shrew. 

But  that  our  soft  conditions,  and  our  hearts, 
Should  well  agree  with  our  external  parts  ? 
Come,  come,  you  froward  and  unable  worms  ! 
My  mind  hath  been  as  big  as  one  of  yours. 
My  heart  as  great,  my  reason  haply  more. 
To  bandy  word  for  word,  and  frown  for  frown; 
But  now  I  see  our  lances  are  but  straws  ; 
Our  strength  as  weak,  our  weakness  past  compare, 
That  seeming  to  be  most,  which  we  least  are. 
Then  vail  your  prides,  for  know  it  is  no  boot ; 
And  place  your  hands  below  your  husband's  foot  ; 
In  token  of  which  duty,  if  he  please. 
My  hand  is  ready,  may  it  do  him  ease. 

It  is  plain  that  after  the  wedding-party  reached  Baptista's 
house,  Petruchio  had  refrained  from  parading  his  power  over 
Katharine,  and  in  the  general  bustle  of  the  feast  the  change 
in  her  has  escaped  the  observation  of  the  others.  Indeed, 
she  is  surrounded  by  unobservant  people.  In  the  judgment 
of  her  former  friends  she  is  still  the  "  shrew  "  she  used  to  be, 
"  and  her  husband  a  fit  object  of  sarcastic  pity." 

What  honors  the  wife  honors  the  husband,  all  that  degrades 
the  wife  dishonors  him  ;  but  the  converse  is  not  always  part 
of  the  proposition.  Of  the  lady  in  Proverbs  it  is  said  that 
she  increases  her  husband's  honor  by  the  honor  all  men  bear 
to  her :  "  Her  husband  is  known  in  the  gates  when  he  sit- 
teth  with  the  elders  of  the  land." 

If  it  had  not  been  for  the  impertinence  of  Hortensio  and 
Tranio,  which  Petruchio  feels  it  incumbent  on  him  to  put 
a  stop  to,  he  might  not  have  contrived  the  litde  scene  to 
show  them  the  real  new  Kate. 

The  "  Monthly  Packet's"  closing  observations  on  this  play 
shall  end  our  own  :  — 

"  Bianca's  petulance  and  the  widow's  imperiousness  are 
excellent  foils  for  Kate's  new-found  sweet  temper ;  and  how 


Taming  of  the  Shrew,  177 

prettily  she  begins  with  them,  slyly  hinting  that  they  look 
ugly  when  they  are  cross.  Of  course  the  vehement  girl  goes 
right  to  the  utmost  extreme  of  submission,  and  pushes  her 
doctrine  of  the  inequahty  of  the  sexes  as  far  as  it  will  possibly 
go.  This  is  just  what  we  might  expect  from  her.  And  then 
her  fair  picture  of  a  man  toiling,  fighting,  enduring,  for  the 
woman's  safety  and  comfort,  readily  leads  to  the  idea  of 
woman's  willing  tribute  of  '■  love,  fair  looks,  and  true  obedience 
to  his  honest  will'  For  Kate  has  no  idea  of  making  all 
the  sacrifice  come  from  either  side,  or  of  erecting  her  hus- 
band into  an  Eastern  Sultan.  ...  If  Kate  gives  in  to  her 
husband  because  she  loves  him,  she  is  careful  to  show  that 
it  is  not  because  she  is  inferior  to  the  women  she  is  speaking 
to.  She  asserts  herself  with  a  delightful  little  flash  of  energy, 
to  let  them  see  they  need  not  hope  to  succeed  where  she  has 
failed,  —  in  the  bad  old  path  of  violence  and  temper.  One 
can  fancy  the  pride  with  which  Petruchio  would  take  her  by 
the  hand  to  lead  her  away,  throwing  a  merry  gibe  at  the 
other  two  bridegrooms." 

After  the  first  scene  in  the  first  act,  Sly  and  his  company 
cease  to  make  remarks  on  the  performance.  It  is  probable 
they  were  allowed  to  extemporize,  and  their  outside  com- 
ments and  criticisms  on  the  story  must  have  added  to  the 
comedy  a  great  deal  of  rough  fun. 

There  is  a  mystery  in  this  play  which  no  commentator  has 
thrown  light  upon :  When  did  Hortensio  get  married  ?  and 
why  is  his  bride  known  to  us  only  under  the  name  of  the 
"Widow"? 


MUCH    ADO    ABOUT    NOTHING. 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 

THIS  is  one  of  Shakspeare's  Italian  stories,  with  Italian 
names  and  an  Italian  setting;  possibly,  too  (for 
Shakspeare  rarely  invented  his  plots,  reserving  his  invention 
for  all  that  gives  life  to  them),  it  had  an  Italian  origin. 
There  is  an  episode  in  Ariosto,  ^'Ariodante  and  Ginevra," 
a  little  like  it ;  but  there  is  also  a  story  of  Bandello's,  with 
the  scene  laid  in  Messina,  and  Leonato,  Don  Pedro,  and 
Borachio  among  the  names  of  the  personages,  that  more 
probably  gave  rise  to  this  comedy.  Beatrice  and  Benedick 
are  Shakspeare's  pure  invention.  Hero,  in  Bandello's  story, 
is  called  Firminia,  and  there  are  no  prototypes  of  Dogberry 
and  Verges. 

"  Much  Ado  about  Nothing  "  is  remarkable  among  Shaks- 
peare's plays  for  what  the  French  call  the  unities.  The 
scene  is  all  in,  or  very  near,  Leonato's  house,  and  the  events 
flow  naturally  one  from  another.  The  author  in  the 
"  Monthly  Packet "  who  writes  "  Shakspeare  Talks  with 
Uncritical  People  "  says  of  it :  "  Less  profound  than  the 
*  Merchant  of  Venice,*  less  passionate  than  '  All 's  well 
that  ends  Well,'  it  has  a  place  of  its  own,  bewitching  us 
by  the  spell  of  its  warm  human  interest,  by  the  bright  life 
which  glows  through  it,  and  the  flashing  fire  which  en- 
livens it." 


1 82  Much  Ado  about  Nothing. 

The  character  of  Beatrice  has  been  frequently,  I  think, 
misunderstood.  She  has  been  condemned  as  pert  and 
unfeminine  ;  whereas  I  think,  with  Lady  Martin  (Miss  Helen 
Faucit),  that  she  is  simply  a  girl  bubbling  over  with  merri- 
ment. She  is  briUiantly  quick-witted^  and  lives  among 
persons  of  no  pretension  to  intellectual  powers.  They  love 
her,  and  admire  her  sallies  much  as  devoted  parents  do 
those  of  a  precocious  and  somewhat  forward  child.  But 
Beatrice  is  a  lady,  every  inch  of  her.  The  moment  she 
awakens  to  a  perception  that  there  may  possibly  be  people 
in  the  world  who  take  a  diiferent  view  of  her  "  playful  light- 
ning of  sarcasm  and  repartee,"  how  immediately  she  draws 
back,  with  gentle  dignity,  and  without  affront !  Lady  Martin 
says :  "  She  simply  rejoices  in  the  keen  sword-play  of  her 
wit,  as  she  would  in  any  other  exercise  of  her  intellect,  or 
sport  of  her  fancy ;  "  and,  "  up  to  the  time  the  play  opens, 
her  life  has  been  one  of  pure  sunshine.  Sorrow  or  wrong 
have  been  unknown  to  her ;  there  has  been  no  call  on  the 
deeper  and  finer  qualities  of  her  nature."  But  loving  the 
exercise  of  her  gift  of  briUiant  repartee  (a  gift  not  honored 
now-a-days  as  it  was  in  the  reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth),  she 
has  found  in  the  little  court  surrounding  her  uncle,  the  Gov- 
ernor, no  "foeman  worthy  of  her  steel,"  save  the  Signior 
Benedick.  In  "  maiden  meditation  "  how  she  may  make  her 
next  attack  upon  him,  and  how  he  will  parry  it  by  some 
equally  brilliant  trick  of  fence,  her  fancy  has  come  to  dwell 
a  great  deal  on  Signior  Benedick.  He  is  her  own  property 
among  the  courtiers,  her  natural  prey,  —  a  kind  of  foe  who 
cannot  pass  her  without  giving  or  taking  a  thrust.  She 
gets  impatient  when  they  are  within  speaking  distance  if 
he  does  not  notice  her.     "The  train   is  laid,"  says   Lady 


Much  Ado  about  Nothing.  183 

Martin,  "  and  it  only  requires  a  spark  to  have  it  burst  into 
flame." 

Contrast  Beatrice  with  poor  Katharine,  in  the  "Taming 
of  the  Shrew."  Katharine  has  lived  all  her  life  among 
people  who  despised  her,  —  people  who  rasped  her  quick 
temper  by  their  meanness,  insincerity,  dulness,  and  want  of 
kindliness.  Beatrice  has  lived  a  great  lady  in  a  charming 
court,  —  loved,  honored,  wooed,  petted,  caressed,  looked  up 
to,  trusted,  and  admired.  Her  people  are  the  perfection 
of  goodness  and  high-breeding;  she  the  spoilt  child  of 
the  court,  and  the  dearly  loved  friend  of  her  pretty,  gentle, 
timid  littie  cousin  Hero,  who  in  general  suffers  her  to  do 
what  she  pleases  with  her.  Beatrice  has  a  temper,  quick 
as  a  flash ;  but  Katharine's,  until  it  meets  heroic  treat- 
ment under  Petruchio,  has  been  kept  in  a  perpetual  state 
of  irritation,  her  own  fine  qualities  themselves  assisting  to 
exasperate  her  with  the  people  round  her. 

Act  I.     Scene  i. 

When  "  Much  Ado  about  Nothing  "  opens,  the  Governor 
and  his  family  are  standing  in  the  open  square  before  the 
Governor's  house  (Sicily  being  at  that  time  a  dependency 
of  Aragon),  and  the  little  court  is  receiving  a  messenger. 

Don  Pedro  of  Aragon  has  been  warring  against  foes  who 
were  assisted  by  his  illegitimate  brother,  Don  John.  The 
foes  have  been  defeated,  and  Don  John  has  come  back  to 
his  allegiance,  soured,  sullen,  and  bent  on  mischief,  —  partly 
for  mere  mischiefs  sake,  and  partly  for  revenge.  The  man 
who  has  most  distinguished  himself  in  the  war  is  a  young 
Florentine,  who  has  an  uncle  settled  in  Messina,  Don 
Claudio,  —  a  brave  but   commonplace   young  man,   whose 


184  Much  Ado  about  Nothing, 

distinguishing  characteristic  is  his  incapacity  for  entertaining 
more  than  one  idea  at  a  time.  Before  he  went  to  the  war 
he  had  the  dawnings  of  a  hking  for  little  Hero,  and  her 
father  Leonato  was  not,  I  think,  averse  to  the  match ;  but 
the  war  put  her  quite  out  of  his  head,  and  there  the  matter 
might  have  dropped,  —  with  perhaps  a  httle  hurt  feeling 
upon  Hero's  part,  —  but  for  the  events  that  form  the  drama. 

We  will  read  the  first  scene,  for  nowhere  does  a  first  scene 
better  bring  out  the  characters  that  are  to  make  the  story. 
We  see  Leonato,  loyal  and  courteous,  and  a  little  stately. 
As  I  said,  he  is  proud  of  his  charming  niece,  and  amused 
by  her  gay  sallies.  Beatrice  stands  fidgeting  till  Benedick 
is  brought  forward.  "  Signior  Montanto,"  as  she  calls  him, 
is  a  nickname  founded  on  a  trick  of  fence,  and  carries  out 
the  idea  of  their  being  perpetually  engaged  in  wordy  sword- 
play.  Don  Pedro  is  the  courteous  prince,  not  very  young, 
I  think,  but  hardly  to  be  described  as  middle-aged.  Prince- 
like, he  has  a  fancy  for  being  deus  ex  machi?ia,  —  the  god 
who  runs  the  machine. 

Benedick  does  not  show  to  advantage  in  the  first  scene 
in  which  we  see  him.  He  forgets  himself  as  a  gentleman 
in  his  speech  to  Leonato ;  but,  to  do  him  justice,  he  is  never 
again  guilty  of  impertinence  to  the  good  and  stately  Gov- 
ernor, who,  so  far  as  we  can  see,  does  not  even  perceive  his 
error ;  but  Beatrice  does,  and  it  puts  a  little  genuine  exas- 
peration into  her  encounter  with  her  old  adversary.  Claudio 
plunges  headlong  into  love  with  Hero.  War  paves  the 
way  for  love.  A  gallBXit  man,  and  gBMantry  are  very  apt 
to  go  together.  War  being  out  of  his  head,  Hero  comes 
into  it.  We  are  very  sure  that  Benedick  says  truth  when 
he   declares   he   has   personally  no  liking  for  httle,  quiet, 


Much  Ado  about  Nothing.  185 

affectionate  Hero.  She  is  not  the  kind  of  woman  to  suit 
his  taste,  and  I,  at  least,  believe  that  he  had  (whether  he 
knew  it  or  not)  a  tall,  brilliant,  stately  lady  for  his  ideal. 

The  messenger  in  the  first  scene  was  evidently  a  gentle- 
man-messenger, as  Raleigh  was  when  he  first  attracted  the 
notice  of  Queen  Elizabeth. 

Leonato.  I  learn  in  this  letter  that  Don  Pedro  of  Aragon  comes 
this  night  to  Messina. 

Messejiger.  He  is  very  near  by  this ;  he  was  not  three  leagues  off 
when  I  left  him. 

Leoiiato.     How  many  gentlemen  have  you  lost  in  this  action  .'' 

Messenger.     But  few  of  any  sort,  and  none  of  name. 

Leonato.  A  victory  is  twice  itself  when  the  achiever  brings  home 
full  numbers.  I  find  here  that  Don  Pedro  hath  bestowed  much  honor 
on  a  young  Florentine  called  Claudio. 

Messenger.  Much  deserved  on  his  part;  and  equally  remembered 
by  Don  Pedro.  He  hath  borne  himself  beyond  the  promise  of  his  age, 
doing  in  the  figure  of  a  lamb  the  feats  of  a  lion.  He  hath  indeed  better 
bettered  expectation  than  you  must  expect  of  me  to  tell  you  how. 

But  as  the  kindly  Governor  and  the  messenger  continue  to 
talk  of  Claudio,  and  of  the  joy  of  his  old  uncle  at  his  success, 
Beatrice  grows  impatient  and  says  suddenly  :  — 

I  pray  you,  is  Signior  Montanto  returned  from  the  wars,  or  no  ? 

Messenger.  I  know  none  of  that  name,  lady  ;  there  was  none  such 
in  the  army  of  any  sort. 

Leonato.     What  is  he  that  you  ask  for,  niece  ? 

Hero.     My  cousin  means  Signior  Benedick  of  Padua. 

Messenger.     O,  he  is  returned  ;  and  as  pleasant  as  ever  he  was. 

Beatrice.  I  pray  you,  how  many  hath  he  killed  and  eaten  in  these 
wars  ?  But  how  many  hath  he  killed  "i  for,  indeed,  I  promised  to  eat 
all  of  his  killing. 

Leonato.  Faith,  niece,  you  tax  Signior  Benedick  too  much;  but  he  '11 
be  meet  with  you,  I  doubt  it  not. 

Messenger.     He  hath  done  good  service,  lady,  in  these  wars. 

Beatrice.  You  had  musty  victual,  and  he  hath  holp  to  eat  it.  He  is 
a  very  valiant  trencher-man ;  he  hath  an  excellent  stomach. 


1 86  Much  Ado  about  Nothing, 

Messenger.    And  a  good  soldier  too,  lady. 

Beatrice  {mimicking].  And  a  good  soldier  to  a  lady.  But  what  is 
he  to  a  lord  } 

Messenger.  A  lord  to  a  lord ;  a  man  to  a  man  ;  stuffed  with  all 
honorable  virtues. 

Beatrice.  He  is  so  indeed  ;  he  is  no  less  than  a  stuffed  man,  —  but 
for  the  stuffing !     Well,  we  are  all  mortal. 

Leonato.  You  must  not,  sir,  mistake  my  niece.  There  is  a  kind  of 
merry  war  betwixt  Signior  Benedick  and  her ;  they  never  meet  but 
there  is  a  skirmish  of  wit  between  them. 

Beatrice.  Alas  1  he  gets  nothing  by  that.  In  our  last  conflict  four 
of  his  five  wits  went  halting  off,  and  now  is  the  whole  man  governed 
with  one.  So  that  if  he  have  wit  enough  to  keep  himself  warm,  let  him 
bear  it  for  a  difference  between  himself  and  his  horse ;  for  it  is  all  the 
wealth  he  hath  left,  to  be  known  a  reasonable  creature.  Who  is  his 
companion  now .?     He  hath  every  month  a  new  sworn  brother. 

Messenger.     Is  it  possible  ? 

Beatrice.  Very  easily  possible  ;  he  wears  his  faith  but  as  the  fashion 
of  his  hat ;  it  ever  changes  with  the  next  block. 

Messenger.     I  see,  lady,  the  gentleman  is  not  in  your  books. 

Beatrice.     No,  an  he  were,  I  would  burn  my  library.  .  .  . 

Messenger.     I  will^hold  friends  with  you,  lady. 

Beatrice.     Do,  good  friend. 

Leonato.     You  will  never  run  mad,  niece. 

Beatrice.     No,  not  till  a  hot  January. 

Messenger.     Don  Pedro  is  approached. 

The  messenger,  little  as  we  see  of  him,  is  very  charming, 
so  courteous,  so  modest,  so  anxious  to  uphold  the  credit  of 
his  officers,  so  simple-hearted,  and  so  slow-witted ;  under  fire 
from  Beatrice  he  is  utterly  bewildered  and  confused.  She 
appreciates  his  excellences  and  spares  him. 

The  victorious  Prince  comes  in,  attended  by  his  discomfited 
brother  and  his  chief  officers.  Courtesies  pass  between  him 
and  the  Governor.  Benedick,  as  I  have  said,  breaks  a  coarse 
jest  on  the  old  man,  which  Leonato  turns  aside  with  courtesy, 
and  then  Beatrice  bursts  upon  him. 


Much  Ado  about  Nothing.  187 

Beatrice.  I  wonder  that  you  will  still  be  talking,  Signior  Benedick ; 
nobody  marks  you. 

Benedick.     What !  my  dear  Lady  Disdain,  are  you  yet  living  ? 

And  so  they  flash  back  at  each  other  repartee  after  repartee, 
till  Don  Pedro  interrupts  them  by  announcing  to  Benedick 
the  arrangements  he  has  been  making  with  the  Governor  for 
their  stay  at  Messina. 

Don  Pedro,  as  I  said  before,  loves  to  exercise  his  kind- 
heartedness,  and  his  princely  taste  for  patronage  and  inter- 
ference, by  running  other  people's  affairs ;  and  finding  that 
Claudio  is  in  love  with  Leonato's  short  daughter,  not  only 
promises  to  sound  the  father  and  promote  the  suit,  but  to 
court  the  lady  himself  in  behalf  of  the  real  lover.  Then  he 
and  Claudio  both  proceed  to  joke  Benedick  about  his  disin- 
clination for  the  fair  sex ;  and  Benedick  having  departed  on 
an  errand  for  the  Prince,  Claudio,  who  did  not  dare  talk 
sentiment  when  he  was  present,  pours  out  his  love-story  to  a 

more  sympathizing  listener  :  — 

•  O,  my  lord, 
"When  you  went  onward  to  this  ended  action 
I  looked  upon  her  with  a  soldier's  eye, 
That  liked,  but  had  a  rougher  task  in  hand 
Than  to  drive  liking  to  the  name  of  love  ; 
But  now  I  am  returned,  and  that  war-thoughts 
Have  left  their  places  vacant,  in  their  rooms 
Come  thronging  soft  and  delicate  desires, 
All  prompting  me  how  fair  young  Hero  is, 
Saying  I  liked  her  ere  I  went  to  wars. 

Scene  2. 

In  this  scene  the  Governor's  household  is  in  a  bustle, 
arranging  for  the  entertainment  of  the  Prince.  Antonio, 
Leonato's  brother,  thinks  he  has  overheard  the  Prince,  while 
walking  in  a  "  thick-pleached  alley  "  of  the  fruit-orchard,  tell 


1 88  Much  Ado  about  Nothing. 

Count  Claudio  that  he  was  in  love  with  Hero,  and  intended 
that  evening  in  a  dance  to  ask  her  hand  in  marriage.  It 
speaks  well  for  the  sound  hearts  of  the  two  old  men  that 
while  gratified  with  the  honor  done  their  house,  they  are 
not  elated.  Indeed,  Antonio  says  the  news  will  be  good 
news  "  only  as  the  event  may  stamp  them.  But  they  have 
a  good  cover,  and  show  well  outward." 

Scene  3. 

Here  we  have  Don  John,  and  Conrade,  one  of  his  followers; 
and  we  are  told  the  reason  of  Don  John's  sullen  behavior. 
His  position  is  galling  to  him  in  every  ^vay.  Like  many 
another  man,  he  rather  prides  himself  on  his  ill-temper,  as  a 
proof  of  his  sincerity  and  independence. 

Don  John.  I  cannot  hide  what  I  am.  I  must  be  sad  when  I  have 
cause,  and  smile  at  no  man's  jests ;  eat  when  I  have  stomach,  and 
wait  for  no  man's  leisure ;  sleep  when  I  am  drowsy,  and  tend  on  no  man's 
business  ;  laugh  when  I  am  merry,  and  claw  no  man  in  his  humor. 

Conrade  advises  prudence.  Don  John,  the  rebel,  has  but 
lately  been  taken  back  into  his  brother's  grace,  where,  his 
adviser  hints,  it  is  impossible  he  should  take  true  root  but  by 
help  of  the  fair  weather  he  may  make  for  himself. 

Don  John.  I  had  rather  be  a  canker  in  a  hedge  than  a  rose  in  his 
grace ;  and  it  better  fits  my  blood  to  be  disdained  of  all,  than  to  fashion 
a  carriage  to  rob  love  from  any.  In  this,  though  I  cannot  be  said  to 
be  a  flattering  honest  man,  it  must  not  be  denied  but  I  am  a  plain- 
dealing  villain.  I  am  trusted  with  a  muzzle,  and  enfranchised  with  a 
clog  ;  therefore  I  have  decreed  not  to  sing  in  my  cage.  If  I  had  my 
mouth  I  would  bite.  If  I  had  my  liberty  I  would  do  my  liking.  In 
the  mean  time  let  me  be  that  I  am,  and  seek  not  to  alter  me. 

At  this  moment  Borachio  coming  in  tells  of  an  intended 
marriage. 


Much  Ado  about  Nothing.  189 

Don  John.  Will  it  serve  for  any  model  to  build  mischief  on  ? 
What  is  he  for  a  fool  that  betroths  himself  to  unquietness  ? 

Borachio.    Marry,  it  is  your  brother's  right  hand. 

Don  John.     Who  ?  —  the  most  exquisite  Claudio  ? 

Borachio.     Even  he. 

Don  John,  A  proper  squire !  And  who,  and  who .?  which  way 
looks  he  ? 

Borachio.     Marry,  on  Hero,  the  daughter  and  heir  of  Leonato. 

Don  John.     How  came  you  by  this .? 

Borachio.  Being  entertained  for  a  perfumer,  as  I  was  smoking  a 
musty  room,  comes  me  the  Prince  and  Claudio,  hand  in  hand,  in  sad 
conference.  I  whipped  me  behind  the  arras,  and  there  heard  it  agreed 
upon  that  the  Prince  should  woo  Hero  for  himself,  and  having  obtained 
her,  give  her  to  Count  Claudio. 

Don  John.  Come,  come,  let  us  thither.  This  may  prove  food  to 
my  displeasure.  That  young  start-up  hath  all  the  glory  of  my  over- 
throw. If  I  can  cross  him  any  way  I  bless  myself  every  way.  You  are 
both  sure,  and  will  assist  me  ? 

Conrade,    To  the  death,  my  lord. 

Act   II.     Scene  i. 

This  act  opens  with  all  the  bustle  of  preparation,  in  the 
hospitable  house  of  Leonato,  for  the  proper  entertainment  of 
Don  Pedro,  the  son  of  his  king.  There  is  to  be  a  masked  ball, 
and  the  family  have  come  together  after  supper,  discussing 
what  has  been  observed  at  the  feast,  —  as  we  all  do  after  a 
gathering.  Beatrice  was  no  doubt  the  ruling  spirit  in  her 
uncle's  house  ;  and  now  she  has  paused  in  her  preparations, 
flashing  about  her  sparks  of  brilliancy,  "  a  creature,"  says  a 
chance  critic  quoted  by  Lady  Martin,  "  overflowing  with 
joyousness,  —  raillery  itself  being  in  her  nothing  more  than 
an  excess  of  animal  spirits,  tempered  by  passing  through 
a  brave  and  loyal  soul."  Lady  Martin  remarks,  too,  that 
Shakspeare  seems  to  have  taken  especial  pleasure  in  the 
delineation   of   Beatrice,   and  more  especially  in  devising 


1 90  Muck  Ado  about  Nothing, 

encounters  between  her  and  Benedick,  —  these  encounters 
reminding  us  of  what  was  once  said  of  Shakspeare  himself, 
in  his  passages  of  words  with  Ben  Jonson ;  where  Jonson  is 
likened  to  a  Spanish  galleon,  Shakspeare  to  an  English  frigate, 
"lesser  in  bulk,  but  lighter  in  sailing,  tacking  about,  and 
taking  advantage  of  all  winds,  by  the  quickness  of  his  wit  and 
invention."  However,  in  this  scene  there  is  no  Benedick, 
only,  as  we  said  before,  "the  family."  Old  Leonato — good- 
ness, hospitality,  and  gentlemanness  incarnate,  but  not  quick 
of  wit  —  delights  in  his  niece's  quaint,  daring  way  of  looking 
at  things.  He  is  proud  of  her,  too  ;  "  for  with  all  her  sportive 
and  somewhat  domineering  ways,  she  is  every  inch  a  noble 
lady,  bearing  herself  in  a  manner  worthy  of  her  high  blood 
and  courtly  breeding.  He  knows  how  good  and  sound  she 
is  at  heart,  no  less  than  in  head,  —  one  of  those  strong 
natures  which  can  be  counted  on  to  rise  up  in  answer  to  a 
call  upon  their  courage  and  fertility  of  resource,  in  any  time 
of  difficulty  or  trouble.  Her  shrewd,  sharp  sayings  have 
only  a  pleasant  piquancy  for  him.  Indeed,  however  much 
weak,  colorless  natures  might  stand  in  awe  of  eyes  so  quick 
to  detect  a  flaw,  and  a  wit  so  prompt  to  cover  it  with  ridicule, 
there  must  have  been  a  charm  for  him,  and  for  all  manly 
natures,  in  the  very  peril  of  coming  under  the  fire  of  her 
raillery.  A  young,  beautiful,  graceful  woman,  flashing  out 
brilliant  sayings,  —  charged  with  no  real  malice,  but  with  just 
enough  of  a  sting  in  them  to  pique  the  self-esteem  of  those 
at  whom  they  are  aimed,  —  must  always,  one  would  fancy, 
have  a  peculiar  charm  for  men  of  spirit.  And  so,  we  see  at 
the  outset,  it  was  with  Beatrice.  Not  only  her  uncle,  but 
also  Don  Pedro  and  Count  Claudio  have  the  highest  admi- 
ration for  her."  We  may  remark,  too,  that  she  never  levels 


I 


Much  Ado  about  Nothing,  191 

a  shaft  of  wit  directly  at  her  uncle.  All  her  behavior  to  him 
is  most  loving  and  dutiful ;  to  her  cousin  Hero  (who  is  greatly 
her  inferior)  she  is  unfailingly  loyal  and  tender.  Don  John 
may  deceive  his  brother,  and  Count  Claudio,  and  Leonato, 
and  even  Benedick,  but  he  does  not  impose  on  this  sharp- 
witted  girl,  who  remarks  upon  his  looks  at  supper.  Hero, 
always  considerate,  tries  to  excuse  him.  Then  Beatrice 
(whose  mind  is  full  of  Benedick)  begins  to  say  of  Don  John  : 
"  What  an  excellent  man  would  he  be  that  were  made  just 
in  the  midway  between  him  and  Benedick  !  "  and  goes  on  to 
describe  the  latter  as  "  always  talking,  like  my  lady's  [spoilt] 
eldest  son."  As  she  goes  on  with  her  quips,  Leonato,  wholly 
incapable  of  answering  her  back,  says,  "  By  my  troth,  niece, 
thou  wilt  never  get  a  husband  if  so  sharp  of  thy  tongue ; " 
and  Beatrice,  whose  head  is  running  on  matrimony  (Hero's 
projected  marriage  being  the  exciting  event  of  the  day),  says 
promptly :  "  For  that  blessing  I  am  on  my  knees  morning 
and  evening.  Lord  !  I  could  not  endure  a  husband  with  a 
beard  on  his  face;"  which  is  the  first  intimation  we  have 
that  Benedick  wore  one.  Antonio,  Leonato's  brother,  a 
somewhat  fussy  old  gentleman,  who  took  no  great  delight 
in  plays  on  words,  interrupts  Beatrice's  jokes  about  beards 
and  husbands  by  calling  the  family  as  it  were  "  to  order," 
and  saying  to  Hero  apropos  to  Don  Pedro's  supposed  inten- 
tion to  court  her  in  the  masquerade,  "  Well,  niece,  I  trust 
you  will  be  ruled  by  your  father."  But  Beatrice  breaks  in, 
wilUng  to  plague  Uncle  Antonio,  with,  — 

Yes,  faith  ;  it  is  my  cousin's  duty  to  make  a  courtesy,  and  say : 
"  Father,  as  it  pleases  you."  But  yet  for  all  that,  cousin,  let  him  be  a 
handsome  fellow,  or  else  make  another  courtesy,  and  say  :  "  Father,  as 
it  please  me." 


192  Much  Ado  about  Nothing. 

Leonato.  Well,  niece,  I  hope  to  see  you  one  day  fitted  with  a  hus- 
band. 

Beatrice.  Not  till  God  make  men  of  some  other  metal  than  earth. 
Would  it  not  grieve  a  woman  to  be  overmastered  by  a  piece  of  valiant 
dust  ?  —  to  make  an  account  of  her  life  to  a  clod  of  wayward  marl  ? 
No,  uncle,  I  '11  none.  Adam's  sons  are  my  brethren,  and  truly  I  hold 
it  a  sin  to  match  in  my  kindred. 

Leonato.  Daughter,  remember  what  I  told  you.  If  the  Prince  do 
solicit  you  in  that  kind  you  know  your  answer. 

Beatrice.  The  fault  will  be  in  the  music,  cousin,  if  you  be  not  wooed 
in  good  time.  If  the  Prince  be  too  importunate,  tell  him  there  is 
measure  in  everything,  and  so  dance  out  the  answer.  But  hear  me, 
Hero ;  wooing,  wedding,  and  repenting  is  as  a  Scotch  jig,  a  measure, 
and  a  cinque-pace  ;  the  first  suit  is  hot  and  hasty,  like  a  Scotch  jig, 
and  full  as  fantastical ;  the  wedding  mannerly  modest,  as  a  measure 
full  of  state  and  ancientry ;  and  then  comes  repentance,  and  with  his 
bad  legs  falls  into  the  cinque-pace,  faster  and  faster,  till  he  sink  a-pace 
into  his  grave. 

Leonato.     Cousin,  you  apprehend  passing  shrewdly. 

Beatrice.    I  have  a  good  eye,  uncle ;  I  can  see  a  church  by  daylight. 

Leonato.     The  revellers  are  coming ;  brother,  make  a  good  room. 

Beatrice's  description  of  Scotch  jig,  measure,  and  cinque- 
pace  applies  in  modern  dancing  to  reel,  minuet,  and  galopade. 

Then  the  maskers  pass  before  us,  and  we  hear  scraps  of 
their  conversation.  Little  Hero,  who  hardly  opens  her  lips 
when  her  cousin  is  by,  but  seems  all  ears  for  her  raillery, 
plucks  up  a  spirit  under  her  mask,  and  tries  a  little  coquetry. 

The  next  lady  who  passes  is  Margaret,  the  lady  in  waiting, 
attended  by  two  gentlemen,  Signior  Benedick  and  the  song- 
ster Balthazar.  Benedick  makes  haste  to  shift  off  Margaret 
on  Balthazar,  and  escapes  to  Beatrice. 

Then  pass  Antonio  and  Ursula,  the  gay  waiting-woman, 
trying  to  befool  the  old  man  ;  and  next  comes  Benedick,  who 
has  found  out  Beatrice  and  paired  off  with  the  only  lady 
who  interests  him.     They  are  in  high  dispute,  and  Beatrice 


Much  Ado  about  Nothing,  193 

knows  whom  she  is  walking  with,  though  he  speaks  in  a  feigned 
voice  and  thinks  she  is  deceived. 

Beatrice.     Will  you  not  tell  me  who  told  you  so  ? 

Benedick.     No,  you  shall  pardon  me. 

Beatrice.     Nor  will  you  not  tell  me  who  you  are  ? 

Benedick.     Not  now. 

Beatrice.  That  I  was  disdainful !  —  and  that  I  had  my  good  wit 
out  of  The  Hundred  Merry  Tales  !  Well,  this  was  Signior  Benedick 
that  said  so. 

Benedick.     What 's  he  ? 

Beatrice.     I  am  sure  you  know  him  well  enough. 

Benedick.     I  pray  you,  what  is  he  ? 

Beatrice.  Why,  he 's  the  Prince's  jester,  —  a  very  dull  fool ;  only 
his  gift  is  in  devising  impossible  slanders  ;  none  but  libertines  delight  in 
him,  and  the  commendation  is  not  in  his  wit  but  in  his  villany.  For 
he  both  pleases  men  and  angers  them  ;  and  then  they  laugh  at  him, 
and  beat  him.  I  am  sure  he  is  in  the  fleet ;  I  would  he  had  boarded 
me. 

Benedick.  When  I  know  the  gentleman  I  will  tell  him  what  you 
say. 

Beatrice.  Do,  do.  He  '11  but  break  a  comparison  or  two  on  me, 
which,  peradventure  not  marked,  or  not  laughed  at,  strikes  him  into 
melancholy ;  and  then  there  's  a  partridge-wing  saved,  for  the  fool  will 
eat  no  supper  that  night.  [Afusic  withijt.]  We  must  follow  the 
leaders. 

Benedick.     In  every  good  thing. 

Beatrice.  Nay,  if  they  lead  to  any  ill  I  will  leave  them  at  the  next 
turning.  [Dance.     Exennt  all. 

In  these  last  words  I  seem  to  see  Benedick's  utter  discom- 
fiture. He  has  to  say  something,  and  all  he  can  find  to  say- 
is  irrelevant  and  commonplace.  Who  cannot  see  Beatrice, 
well  satisfied  with  herself,  dancing  away  lightly  and  joyously? 

As  they  all  pass,  dancing,  Don  John  remains  with  his  two 
confidants,  Conrade,  a  worthless  gentleman,  and  Borachio  a 
ruffian.  Don  John  thinks  he  has  found  out  that  Don  Pedro 
is  himself  sweet  upon  Claudio's  little  love ;  and  as  Claudio 

13 


194  Much  Ado  about  Nothing. 

comes  up,  endeavoring  to  pass  himself  for  Signior  Benedick, 
he  points  out  to  him  the  Prince  and  Hero,  saying  that  he 
has  overheard  him  making  to  her  a  declaration  of  love. 
Claudio,  ever  ready  to  go  off  at  half-cock,  and  with  apparently 
no  reasoning  powers  whatever,  falls  at  once  into  the  trap,  and 
begins  to  be  jealous  of  the  Prince,  who  by  agreement  is  woo- 
ing for  him.  In  truth,  the  course  of  Claudio's  love  would  be 
smooth  as  a  mill-pond,  were  it  not  for  his  own  self-deceptions. 
He  looks  so  sullen  (having  resolved  to  give  up  Hero)  that 
Benedick,  who  has  come  back,  cannot  resist  plaguing  him. 
He  is  not  the  man  who  would  have  beheved  his  friend  and 
Prince  could  have  served  him  thus,  but  Claudio  is  as  ready 
to  think  harm  of  his  friend  as  afterwards  of  his  love.  Not 
able  to  bear  Benedick's  raillery,  he  soon  takes  himself  away ; 
and  then  we  see  how  hurt  Benedick  has  been  by  the  words 
that  have  fallen  from  Beatrice.  He  began  it  himself,  —  as 
children  say,  —  but  Beatrice  planted  her  stings  best.  What 
could  be  more  hateful  to  a  gallant  gentleman,  who  had 
plumed  himself  upon  the  superiority  of  his  wit,  than  to  be 
called  the  Prince's  jester?  However  (unlike  Beatrice,  who, 
in  corresponding  circumstances,  at  once  lays  her  own  errors 
to  heart),  he  does  what  Adam's  sons  have  always  done, — 
he  blames  the  woman. 

But  that  my  lady  Beatrice  should  know  me  and  not  know  me ! 
The  Prince's  fool  !  Ha !  it  may  be  that  I  go  under  that  title  because 
I  am  merry  — yea,  but  so  I  am  apt  to  do  myself  wrong.  I  am  not  so 
reputed !  It  is  the  base,  the  bitter  disposition  of  Beatrice,  that  puts 
the  world  into  her  person  and  so  gives  me  out.  Well!  I'll  be  re- 
venged as  I  may. 

At  this  moment  comes  in  Don  Pedro,  attended  by  Leonato 
and  his  daughter ;  and  Benedick,  who  is  no  time-server,  ad- 


Much  Ado  about  Nothing,  195 

ministers  a  reproof,  in  case  (which  he  does  not  think  possible) 
the  Prince  has  been  playing  false  to  Claudio ;  for  Benedick 
does  not  understand  the  situation,  not  having  been  present 
when  the  courting  arrangement  was  made.  We  see  in  the 
scene  that  follows  how  furious  Benedick  (accused  of  being 
the  Prince's  jester)  is  with  Beatrice.  Indeed,  perhaps  her 
taunt  has  made  him  more  quick  to  assert  his  independence 
by  the  reproof  he  administers,  in  Hero's  presence,  to  his 
master  and  general.  I  think  Benedick  is  older  than  Don 
Pedro.  My  ideas  of  their  ages  are  :  Benedick,  thirty-five ; 
Don  Pedro,  thirty  ;  Claudio,  twenty-two. 

The  Prince  has  come  in  search  of  Claudio,  eager  to  tell 
him  of  the  success  of  his  wooing,  and  cries  out  to  Benedick  : 

Now,  Signior,  where  's  the  count  ?    Did  you  see  him  ? 

Benedick.  Troth,  my  lord,  I  have  played  the  part  of  Lady  Fame. 
I  found  him  here  as  melancholy  as  a  lodge  in  a  warren.  I  told  him, 
and  I  think  I  told  him  true,  that  your  grace  had  got  the  good-will  of 
the  young  lady ;  and  I  offered  him  my  company  to  a  willow-tree,  either 
to  make  him  a  garland,  as  forsaken,  or  to  bind  him  up  a  rod,  as  being 
worthy  to  be  whipped. 

Don  Pedro.    To  be  whipped  !     What 's  his  fault .? 

Benedick.  The  flat  transgression  of  a  school-boy,  who,  being  over- 
joyed with  finding  a  bird's  nest,  shows  it  his  companion,  and  he  steals 
it. 

Don  Pedro.  Wilt  thou  make  a  trust  a  transgression  ?  The  trans- 
gression is  in  the  stealer. 

Benedick.  Yet  it  had  not  been  amiss  the  rod  had  been  made,  and 
the  garland  too  ;  for  the  garland  he  might  have  worn  himself,  and  the 
rod  he  might  have  bestowed  on  you,  who,  as  I  take  it,  have  stolen  his 
bird's  nest. 

Don  Pedro.  I  will  but  teach  them  to  sing  and  restore  them  to  the 
owner. 

Benedick.  If  their  singing  answer  your  saying,  by  my  faith,  you  say 
honestly. 

Don  Pedro.  The  Lady  Beatrice  hath  a  quarrel  with  you.  The 
gentleman  that  danced  with  her  told  her  she  is  much  wronged  by  you. 


196  Much  Ado  about  Nothing. 

Benedick.  O !  she  misused  ine  past  the  endurance  of  a  block ! 
An  oak  with  but  one  green  leaf  upon  it  would  have  answered  her. 
My  very  visor  began  to  assume  life  and  scold  with  her.  She  told  me  (not 
thinking  I  had  been  myselQ  that  I  was  the  Prince's  jester,  that  I  was 
duller  than  a  great  thaw,  —  huddling  jest  upon  jest  with  such  impossible 
conveyance  upon  me  that  I  stood  like  a  man  at  a  mark,  with  a  whole 
army  shooting  at  me.  She  speaks  poinards,  and  every  word  stabs.  •  If 
her  breath  were  as  unsupportable  as  her  terminations,  there  were  no 
living  near  her;  she  would  infect  the  north  star.  I  would  not  marry 
her  though  she  were  endowed  with  all  that  Adam  had  lent  him  before 
he  transgressed.  She  would  have  made  Hercules  have  turned  spit ; 
yea,  and  have  cleft  his  club  to  make  the  fire  too.  Come,  talk  not  of  her  ; 
—  you  shall  find  her  the  infernal  Ate  in  good  apparel.  I  would  to  God 
some  scholar  would  conjure  her  ;  for  certainly,  while  she  is  here,  a  man 
may  live  as  quiet  in  hell  as  in  a  sanctuary,  and  people  sin  upon  pur- 
pose because  they  would  go  thither.  So,  indeed,  all  disquiet,  horror, 
and  perturbation  follow  her. 

Remark  in  Benedick's  speech  the  description  of  utter  lone- 
liness, —  "  as  melancholy  as  a  lodge  in  a  warren."  A  warren  is 
waste  land  devoted  to  wild  rabbits.  Of  course,  it  has  to  be  a 
solitude,  that  the  rabbits  may  not  be  disturbed,  and  with  no 
trees  about  it,  that  the  warrener  may  see  all  that  is  going  on. 
I  have  not  seen  a  warren  since  I  was  ten  years  old,  but  the 
word  brings  to  my  mind  recollections  of  my  childhood,  —  a 
scene  of  utter  solitude  and  desolation. 

Remark  also  that  Beatrice  had  not  told  the  Prince  that 
she  had  danced  with  Benedick,  but  he,  in  his  excitement,  at 
once  blurts  out  the  secret.  With  exaggerated  horror  Bene- 
dick, sore  from  his  wounds,  declines  to  meet  his  adversary. 

Some  editions  of  this  play  make  Hero  and  her  father  enter 
in  attendance  on  Don  Pedro ;  it  seems  far  more  probable 
that  the  family  party,  Leonato  with  his  niece  and  daughter, 
came  in  at  this  moment  with  Claudio,  who  had  been  in- 
formed that  the  Prince  was  looking  for  him. 


Much  Ado  about  Nothing.  197 

As  Beatrice  enters,  Don  Pedro  whispers  to  Benedick,  — 

Look,  here  she  comes. 

Benedick.  Will  your  Grace  command  me  any  service  to  the  world's 
end  ?  I  will  go  on  the  lightest  service  now  to  the  Antipodes  that  you 
can  devise  to  send  me  on.  I  will  fetch  you  a  tooth-picker  now  from 
the  farthest  inch  of  Asia  ;  bring  you  the  length  of  Prester  John's  foot  • 
fetch  you  a  hair  off  the  great  Cham's  beard ;  do  you  any  embassage  to 
the  Pygmies,  —  rather  than  hold  three  words  conference  with  this 
Harpy.     You  have  no  employment  for  me  } 

Don  Pedro.     None,  but  to  desire  your  good  company. 

Benedick,  O  !  Lord,  sir,  here 's  a  dish  I  love  not.  I  cannot  endure 
my  Lady  Tongue.  \^Exit  Benedick. 

Then  Don  Pedro,  turning  to  Beatrice,  reproaches  her  for 
losing  the  good  opinion  of  Benedick.  She  answers  him  with 
merry  quips,  but  is  too  bright  for  him ;  he  cannot  cap  her, 
and  so  turns  to  Claudio. 

Beatrice,  taking  pity  on  her  cousin's  lover,  explains  that 
he  is  jealous,  "  civil  as  a  Seville  orange."  These  oranges  are 
sour,  and  are  esteemed  in  England  for  preserves  and  marma- 
lade. All  the  scene  that  succeeds  is  very  pretty.  Quiet 
Hero's  fulness  of  contentment,  Beatrice's  little  interferences, 
her  natural  disappointment  that  when  those  younger  and  less 
popular  than  herself  are  being  married  she  should  have  no 
wooer,  and  ihe  dignity  with  which  she  pulls  herself  up,  con- 
scious of  having  gone  a  little  too  far  with  Don  Pedro,  and 
answers  his  half-joking  offer  of  himself  as  her  bridegroom 
(which  a  coquette  might  easily  have  converted  into  a  real 
proposal)  with  dignity,  a  compliment,  and  an  apology,  —  may 
be  noted.  Note  also  the  pretty  way  in  which  when  reminded 
of  her  household  duties  by  her  uncle,  she  asks  his  pardon, 
courtesies  to  the  Prince,  and  departs 

Don  Pedro.     Why,  how  now,  Count  ?     Wherefore  are  you  sad  1 
Claudio.     Not  sad,  my  lord. 


1 98  Much  Ado  about  Nothing. 

Don  Pedro.     How,  then,  —  sick  ? 
Claudio.     Neither,  my  lord. 

Beatrice.  The  Count  is  neither  sad,  nor  sick,  nor  merry,  nor  well, 
but  civil.  Count,  —  civil  as  an  orange,  and  something  of  the  jealous 
complexion  of  one. 

Don  Pedro.  V  faith,  lady,  I  think  your  blazon  to  be  true ;  though 
I  '11  be  sworn,  if  he  be  so,  his  conceit  is  false.  Here,  Claudio,  I  have 
wooed  in' thy  name,  and  fair  Hero  is  won.  I  have  broke  with  her 
father,  and  his  good-will  is  obtained.  Name  the  day  of  marriage,  and 
God  give  you  joy. 

Leonato.  Count,  take  of  me  my  daughter,  and  with  her  my  for- 
tunes. His  Grace  hath  made  the  match,  and  all  grace  say  Amen 
to  it. 

Beatrice.     Speak,  Count,  it  is  your  cue. 

Claudio.  Silence  is  the  perfectest  herald  of  joy.  I  were  but  little 
happy  if  I  could  say  how  much.  Lady,  as  you  are  mine  I  am  yours. 
I  give  away  myself  for  you,  and  dote  in  the  exchange. 

Beatrice.  Speak,  cousin,  or,  if  you  cannot,  stop  his  mouth  with  a 
kiss,  and  let  him  not  speak  neither. 

Don  Pedro.     In  faith,  lady,  you  have  a  merry  heart. 

Beatrice.  Yea,  my  lord,  I  thank  it,  poor  fool  ;  it  keeps  on  the 
windy  side  of  care.  My  cousin  tells  him  in  his  ear  that  he  is  in  her 
heart. 

Claudio.     And  so  she  doth,  cousin. 

Beatrice.  Heigho,  for  alliance !  Thus  goes  every  one  in  the 
world  but  I,  and  I  am  sun-burned ;  I  may  sit  in  a  corner  and  sing 
heigh-ho  for  a  husband. 

Don  Pedro.     Will  you  have  me,  lady  ? 

Beatrice.  No,  my  lord,  unless  I  might  have  another  for  working- 
days.  Your  Grace  is  too  costly  to  wear  every  day.  But  I  beseech 
your  Grace,  pardon  me  ;  I  was  born  to  speak  all  mirth,  and  no 
matter. 

Don  Pedro.  Your  silence  most  offends  me,  and  to  be  merry 
best  becomes  you ;  for  out  of  question  you  were  born  in  a  merry 
hour. 

Beatrice.  No,  sure,  my  lord ;  but  there  was  a  star  danced,  and 
under  that  was  I  born.     Cousins,  God  give  you  joy. 

Leonato.    Niece,  will  you  look  to  those  things  I  told  you  of.? 

Beatrice.    I  cry  your  mercy,  uncle.     By  your  Grace's  pardon. 

\Exit  Beatrice. 


Much  Ado  about  Nothing.  199 

After  Beatrice  has  left  them  Don  Pedro  again  plays  deus 
ex  machina,  and  plans  to  unite  Beatrice  and  Benedick,  of 
whom  he  says,  he  is  brave,  well-born,  and  reliable. 

Scene  2. 

In  this  scene  Don  John  and  Borachio  plan  their  wicked 
plot  against  Claudio  and  Hero,  in  contrast  with  the  playful 
plot  for  good  that  the  Prince  and  his  confederates  are  plan- 
ning by  which  to  unite  Benedick  and  Beatrice.  The  one  plot 
in  the  end  defeats  the  other.  Don  John,  like  most  men  in  his 
unfortunate  social  position,  is  sensitive,  envious,  and  suspi- 
cious; Borachio,  the  bravo  of  those  times,  loves  money, 
and  is  cunning  in  evil.  He  is  faithful  to  his  employer,  but 
only  so  long  as  that  employer  seems  faithful  to  him.  He 
is  of  the  stuff  out  of  which  was  made  the  landsknecht,  the 
condotiiere,  the  soldier  of  fortune. 

Scene  3. 

This  scene  in  Leonato's  garden  contains  Benedick's  solilo- 
quy about  Claudio  in  love,  and  we  see,  in  spite  of  all  he  says 
against  matrimony,  that  he  has  his  own  marriage  in  his  mind. 
His  wife  must  be  rich,  wise,  virtuous,  fair,  mild,  noble,  witty, 
and  musical;  all  these  things  he  afterward  confesses  he 
has  found  combined  in  Beatrice.  Seeing  Claudio  approach, 
whose  bantering,  or  sentimentality,  he  feels  himself  unable 
to  stand,  he  takes  himself  away  into  an  arbor.  Here  is  his 
soliloquy :  — 

I  do  much  wonder  that  one  man,  seeing  how  much  another  man  is  a 
fool  when  he  dedicates  his  behaviors  to  love,  will,  after  he  has  laughed 
at  such  shallow  follies  in  others,  become  the  argument  of  his  own 
scorn  by  falling  in  love.     And  such  a  man  is  Claudio.     I  have  known 


200  Much  Ado  about  Nothing. 

when  there  was  no  music  in  him  but  the  drum  and  fife,  and  now  he 
had  rather  hear  the  tabor  and  pipe.  I  have  known  when  he  would 
have  walked  ten  mile  afoot  to  see  a  good  armor,  and  now  will  he  lie 
ten  nights  awake  carving  the  fashion  of  a  new  doublet.  He  was  wont 
to  speak  plain  and  to  the  purpose,  like  an  honest  man  and  a  soldier, 
and  now  is  he  turned  orthographer  ;  his  words  are  a  very  fantastical 
banquet,  just  so  many  strange  dishes.  May  /  be  so  converted,  and 
see  with  these  eyes  ?  I  cannot  tell.  I  think  not.  I  will  not  be  sworn 
but  love  may  transform  me  to  an  oyster,  but,  I  '11  take  mine  oath  on  't 
till  he  have  made  an  oyster  of  me,  he  shall  never  make  me  such  a  fool. 
One  woman  is  fair, — yet  I  am  well;  another  is  wise,  —  yet  I  am 
well ;  another  virtuous,  —  yet  I  am  well ;  but  till  all  graces  be  in  one 
woman,  one  woman  shall  not  come  in  my  grace.  Rich  she  shall  be  — 
that 's  certain ,  wise,  or  I  'II  none  ;  virtuous,  or  I  '11  never  cheapen  her ; 
fair,  or  I  '11  never  look  on  her  ;  mild,  or  come  not  near  me  ;  noble,  or 
not  I  for  an  angel ;  of  good  discourse  ;  an  excellent  musician  ;  and  her 
hair  shall  be  of  what  color  Heaven  pleases.  Hal  —  the  Prince  and 
Monsieur  Love  I     I  will  hide  me  in  the  arbor ! 

Then  come  in  the  Prince  and  Claudio,  both  aware  that 
Benedick  is  within  ear-shot ;  and  Balthazar,  with  his  lute,  sings 
in  the  warm  summer-night  a  song  quoted  among  us  from 
generation  to  generation  :  — 

Sigh  no  more,  ladies,  sigh  no  more, 

Men  were  deceivers  ever ; 
One  foot  on  sea  and  one  on  shore, 
To  one  thing  constant  never. 
Then  sigh  not  so,  « 

But  let  them  go. 
And  be  you  blithe  and  bonny ; 
Converting  all  your  sounds  of  woe 
Into  Hey  nonny,  nonny  ! 

Sing  no  more  ditties,  sing  no  mo'  — 

Or  dumps  so  dull  and  heavy ; 
The  frauds  of  men  were  ever  so. 
Since  summer  first  was  leafy. 
Then  sigh  not  so, 
But  let  them  go, 


Much  Ado  about  Nothing.  201 

And  be  you  blithe  and  bonny  ; 
Converting  all  your  sounds  of  woe 
Into  Hey  nonny,  nonny  I 

Balthazar  puts  on  all  the  coynesses  which  especially  distin- 
guish singers,  and  Benedick,  who  has  great  musical  taste, 
growls  at  his  performance,  unheard,  from  his  arbor.  Then 
begins  the  famous  scene  in  which  Benedick  is  made  to 
believe  that  Beatrice  is  dying  of  love  for  him.  Claudio 
stands  where  he  can  watch  Benedick,  and  reports  in  asides 
how  he  takes  what  is  being  said  of  him.  The  other  two, 
Leonato  and  the  Prince,  cannot  see  their  victim.  They 
keep  up  the  conversation  with  admirable  gravity.  Benedick, 
hardly  believing  his  ears  at  first,  is  convinced  by  feeling  sure 
Leonato  could  not  possibly  be  tricking  him;  he  did  not 
reflect  that,  as  Balzac  says,  what  a  man  will  not  do  for 
himself,  he  will  often  do  for  his  superior. 

Here  is  the  whole  scene,  with  Benedick's  soliloquy,  and 
his  remarks  when  Beatrice,  quite  cross  at  being  sent  to  call 
him  to  supper,  delivers  her  message  :  — 

Don  Pedro.  Come  hither,  Leonato  ;  what  was  it  you  told  me  of  to- 
day ?  that  your  niece  Beatrice  was  in  love  with  Signior  Benedick  ? 

Claudio  \in  a  whisper].   O  !  ay  —  stalk  on  ;  stalk  on  ;  the  fowl  sets. 

[Aloud,  speaking  to  Don  Pedro.]  I  did  never  think  that  lady  would 
have  loved  any  man. 

Leonato.  No,  nor  I  either ;  but  most  wonderful  that  she  should 
so  dote  on  Signior  Benedick,  whom  she  hath  in  all  outward  behavior 
seemed  ever  to  abhor. 

Benedick  \asidc].     Is  't  possible  ?     Sits  the  wind  in  that  corner  ? 

Leonato.  By  my  troth,  my  lord,  I  cannot  tell  what  to  think  of  it  •  but 
that  she  loves  him  with  an  enraged  affection,  —  it  is  past  the  infinite  of 
thought. 

Don  Pedro.     Maybe  she  doth  but  counterfeit. 

Claudio.     Faith  I  like  enough. 

Leonato.  O  heavens !  counterfeit !  There  never  was  a  counterfeit 
of  passion  came  so  near  the  life  of  passion,  as  she  discovers  it. 


202  Miich  Ado  about  Nothing. 

Don  Pedro.     Why,  what  effects  of  passion  shows  she  ? 

Claudio  {whispers  aside].     Bait  the  hook  well;  this  fish  will  bite. 

Leonato.  What  effects,  my  lord?  She  will  sit  you, —  you  heard 
my  daughter  tell  you  how. 

Claudio.     She  did  indeed. 

Don  Pedro.  How,  how,  I  pray  you  ?  You  amaze  me !  I  would 
have  thought  her  spirit  would  have  been  invincible  against  all  assaults 
of  affection. 

Leonato.  I  would  have  sworn  it  had,  my  lord,  especially  against 
Signior  Benedick. 

Benedick  \aside\,  I  should  think  this  a  gull,  but  that  the  white- 
bearded  fellow  speaks  it.  Knavery  cannot,  sure,  hide  itself  in  such 
reverence. 

Claudio  {whispering  aside].    He  hath  taken  the  infection  ;  hold  it  up. 

Don  Pedro.     Hath  she  made  her  affection  known  to  Benedick  } 

Leonato.     No,  and  swears  she  never  will.     That  is  her  torment. 

Claudio.  'T  is  true,  indeed  ;  so  your  daughter  says.  "  Shall  I,"  says 
she,  "  that  have  so  oft  encountered  him  with  scorn,  write  to  him  that  I 
love  him  ? " 

Leonato.  This  says  she  now  when  she  is  beginning  to  write  to  him ; 
for  she  Ml  be  up  twenty  times  a  night.  And  there  will  she  sit  in  her 
smock,  till  she  have  writ  a  sheet  of  paper  full.  My  daughter  tells  us 
that. 

Claudio.    After  that? 

Leonato.  O,  she  tore  the  letter  into  a  thousand  ha'pence  —  railed  at 
herself  that  she  should  be  so  immodest  to  write  to  one  that  she  knew 
would  flout  her.  "  I  measure  him,"  says  she,  "  by  my  own  spirit ; 
I  should  flout  him  if  he  writ  to  me ;  yea,  though  I  love  him,  I 
should." 

Claudio.  Then  down  on  her  knees  she  falls,  weeps,  sobs,  beats  her 
breast,  tears  her  hair,  prays,  curses  :  "  O  sweet  Benedick!  God  give 
me  patience." 

Leonato.  She  doth,  indeed ;  my  daughter  says  so.  And  the  ecstasy 
has  so  much  overborne  her  that  my  daughter  is  afraid  she  will  do  a 
desperate  outrage  to  herself     It  is  very  true. 

Don  Pedro.  It  were  good  that  Benedick  knew  of  it  by  some  other, 
if  she  will  not  discover  it. 

Claudio.  To  what  end  ?  He  would  but  make  a  sport  of  it,  and  tor- 
ment the  poor  lady  worse. 

Don  Pedro.  An  he  should,  it  were  an  alms-deed  to  hang  him.  She 
is  an  excellent,  sweet  lady ;  and  out  of  all  suspicion,  she  is  virtuous. 


Much  Ado  about  Nothing,  203 

Claudio.     And  she  is  exceeding  wise. 

Don  Pedro.     In  everything  but  in  loving  Benedick. 

Then  Don  Pedro  —  with  the  remark  that  he  wishes  she 
had  bestowed  this  dotage  upon  him ;  he  would  have  doffed 
all  other  respects,  and  made  her  half  himself — proposes  to 
tell  Benedick. 

The  others  assure  him  this  will  never  do,  and  Don  Pedro, 
upon  second  thoughts,  remarks,  "'Tis  very  possible  he'd 
scorn  her  love ;  for  the  man,  as  you  know  all,  hath  a  con- 
temptuous spirit." 

Claudio.     He  is  a  very  [proper]  handsome  man. 

Don  Pedro.     He  hath  indeed  a  good  outward  happiness. 

Claudio.     'Fore  Heaven  and  in  my  mind,  he 's  very  wise. 

Don  Pedro.  He  doth  indeed  show  some  sparks  that  are  like 
wit. 

Leonato.    And  I  take  him  to  be  valiant. 

Don  Pedro.  As  Hector,  I  assure  you;  .  .  .  and  the  man  doth  fear 
God,  howsoever  it  seems  not  in  him  by  some  of  the  large  jests  he  will 
make.  Well,  I  am  sorry  for  your  niece.  Shall  we  go  seek  Benedick, 
and  tell  him  of  her  love  ? 

Claudio.  Never  tell  him,  my  lord.  Let  her  wear  it  out  with  good 
counsel. 

Don  Pedro.  Well,  let  it  cool  awhile.  I  love  Benedick  well,  and 
I  could  wish  he  would  modestly  examine  himself,  and  see  how  much 
he  is  unworthy  of  so  good  a  lady. 

Leonato.    My  lord,  will  you  walk  ?  dinner  is  ready.  \Exeunt. 

Benedick  {advancing  from  the  arbor^.  This  can  be  no  trick;  the 
conference  was  gravely  borne.  They  have  the  truth  of  this  from  Hero. 
They  seem  to  pity  the  lady.  Love  me  !  why,  it  must  be  requited.  I 
hear  how  I  am  censured.  They  say  I  will  bear  myself  proudly  if  I 
perceive  the  love  come  from  her.  They  say  too  she  will  rather  die 
than  give  any  sign  of  affection.  I  did  never  think  to  marry.  I  must 
not  seem  proud.  Happy  are  they  that  can  hear  their  detractions  and 
put  them  to  mending.  They  say  the  lady  is  fair ;  't  is  a  truth,  —  I  can 
bear  them  witness ;  and  virtuous,  —  't  is  so,  I  cannot  reprove  it ;  and 
wise,  but  for  loving  me  ;  by  my  troth,  it  is  no  addition  to  her  wit,  nor 
no  great  argument  of  her  folly,  for  I  will  be  horribly  in  love  with  her. 


204  Much  Ado  about  Nothing, 

I  may  chance  to  have  some  odd  quirks  and  remnants  of  wit  broken 
on  me,  because  I  have  railed  so  long,  against  marriage  ;  but  doth  not 
the  appetite  alter  ?  Shall  quips  and  sentences,  and  these  paper  bullets 
of  the  brain  awe  a  man  from  the  career  of  his  humor  ?  No,  the  world 
must  be  peopled.  When  I  said  I  would  die  a  bachelor,  I  did  not  think 
I  should  live  till  I  were  married.  Here  comes  Beatrice.  By  this  day, 
she  's  a  fair  lady.     I  do  spy  some  marks  of  love  in  her. 

Beatrice.     Against  my  will  I  am  sent  to  bid  you  come  in  to  dinner. 

Benedick.     Fair  Beatrice,  I  thank  you  for  your  pains. 

Beatrice.  I  took  no  more  pains  for  those  thanks  than  you  take 
pains  to  thank  me.  If  it  had  been  painful  I  would  not  have 
come. 

Benedick.     You  take  pleasure,  then,  in  the  message  ? 

Beatrice.  Yea,  just  as  much  as  you  may  take  on  a  knife's  point  and 
not  choke  a  daw  withal.  You  have  no  stomach,  signior;  fare  you 
well.  \Exit. 

Benedick.  Ha  !  "  Against  my  will  I  am  sent  to  bid  you  come  in 
to  dinner  ; "  there  's  a  double  meaning  in  that.  "  I  took  no  more  pains 
for  your  thanks  than  you  took  pains  to  thank  me  ;  "  that 's  as  much  as 
to  say :  Any  pains  that  I  take  for  you  is  as  easy  as  thanks.  If  I  do 
not  take  pity  of  her  I  am  a  villain.  If  I  do  not  love  her  I  am  a  Jew. 
I  will  go  get  her  picture. 

Shakspeare's  wonderful  art  shows  itself  conspicuously  in 
this  scene.  Any  other  writer  would  have  seized  the  occasion 
to  draw  a  poetic  picture  of  a  desponding,  love-sick  maiden, 
as  true  to  life  as  his  experience  enabled  him  to  portray. 
Shakspeare  does  no  such  thing.  These  three  men  —  the 
Prince,  Claudio,  and  Leonato  set  about  the  task  they  have 
assigned  themselves  so  unskilfully  that  any  woman  hidden 
in  the  arbor  would  have  known  at  once  that,  as  children 
say,  "  they  were  making  it  up  as  they  went  along." 

Would  any  Hero  have  betrayed  her  cousin  to  her  few-hours- 
old  lover,  as  sitting  in  her  smock  at  dead  of  night  writing  a 
questionably-modest  love-letter?  Would  Beatrice,  unless 
transported  out  of  her  own  character,  have  invoked  any  Bene- 
dick as  she  is  reputed  to  have  done?    Would  she  to  any 


Much  Ado  about  Nothing.  205 

bedfellow,  or  cousin,  have  said  anything  so  stilted  and 
unnatural  as  "  I  measure  him  by  my  own  spirit ;  for  I  should 
flout  him  if  he  writ  to  me;  yea,  though  I  love  him,  I 
should"? 

Not,  surely,  this  Beatrice,  nor  scarcely  any  woman.  Bea- 
trice would  have  hidden  her  wound  proudly,  have  broken  jest 
upon  jest  upon  Benedick  to  the  last,  and  have  died  self- 
martyred  with  the  spirit  of  a  Spartan.  But  these  men  know 
none  of  these  things,  and  clumsily  set  to  work  to  the  best  of 
their  shallow  perception  to  evolve  from  their  inner  conscious- 
ness a  proud  girl  in  her  love-trouble.  They  were  not  poets, 
nor  dramatists,  nor  novelists,  —  nor  was  Benedick  ;  else,  from 
internal  evidence,  he  would  have  detected  the  deception, 
and  convicted  them  out  of  their  own  mouths  of  leze- 
chivalry. 

However,  they  knew  no  better,  nor  did  he.  Ursula  and 
Hero  manage  their  task  in  a  very  different  fashion.  They 
draw  no  picture  of  Benedick  in  a  supposed  maudlin  state. 
What  a  man  would  do  or  say,  in  solitude  or  among  his 
friends,  under  such  circumstances,  was  unknown  to  them, 
and  they  let  the  subject  very  sensibly  alone. 

Act  III.    Scene  i. 

The  charm  of  this  scene  is  that  while  it  repeats  the  action 
in  the  closing  part  of  the  last  act,  we  here  see  women  prac- 
tising upon  a  woman.  Hero,  too  shy  to  speak  in  company 
or  before  strange  men,  now  displays  wit,  sense,  and  pene- 
tration, so  that  we  better  understand  than  we  have  done 
before,  her  close  intimacy  with  the  brilliant  Beatrice.  The 
"  pleached  "  bower  is  a  bower  interlaced  and  intertwined 
with  creepers. 


2o6  Much  Ado  about  Nothing, 

Hero.  The  pleached  bower, 

Where  honey-suckles,  ripened  by  the  sun, 
P'orbid  the  sun  to  enter,  —  like  favorites 
Made  proud  by  princes,  that  advance  their  pride 
Against  the  power  that  bred  it,  .  .  . 
Now,  Ursula,  when  Beatrice  doth  come, 
As  we  do  trace  this  alley  up  and  down, 
Our  talk  must  only  be  of  Benedick. 
When  I  do  name  him  let  it  be  thy  part 
To  praise  him  more  than  ever  man  did  merit. 
My  talk  to  thee  must  be  how  Benedick 
Is  sick  in  love  with  Beatrice.    Of  this  matter 
Is  little  Cupid's  crafty  arrow  made. 
That  only  wounds  by  hearsay.     Now  begin ; 
For  look  where  Beatrice,  like  a  lap-wing,  runs 
Close  to  the  ground  to  hear  our  conference. 

Ursula.    The  pleasant'st  angling  is  to  see  the  fish 
Cut  with  her  golden  oars  the  silver  stream, 
And  greedily  devour  the  treacherous  bait. 
So  angle  we  for  Beatrice,  who  even  now 
Is  crouched  in  the  woodbine  coverture. 
Fear  you  not  my  part  of  the  dialogue. 

Hero.    Then  go  we  near  her,  that  her  ear  lose  nothing 
Of  the  false  sweet  bait  that  we  lay  for  it.  — 
No,  truly,  Ursula,  she  is  too  disdainful ; 
I  know  her  spirits  are  as  coy  and  wild 
As  haggards  of  the  rock. 

Ursula.  But  are  you  sure 

That  Benedick  loves  Beatrice  so  entirely  ? 

Hero.     So  says  the  Prince,  and  my  new  'trothed  lord. 

Ursula.     And  did  they  bid  you  tell  her  of  it,  madam  ? 

Hero.    They  did  entreat  me  to  acquaint  her  of  it ; 
But  I  persuaded  them,  if  they  loved  Benedick, 
To  wish  him  wrestle  with  affection 
And  never  to  let  Beatrice  know  of  it. 

Ursula.     Why  did  you  so  ?    Doth  not  the  gentleman 
Deserve  as  full,  as  fortunate  a  bride  ? 

Hero.    O  god  of  love !    I  know  he  doth  deserve 
As  much  as  may  be  yielded  to  a  man. 
But  nature  never  framed  a  woman's  heart 


Much  Ado  about  Nothing,  207 

Of  prouder  stuff  than  that  of  Beatrice. 
Disdain  and  scorn  ride  sparkling  in  her  eyes, 
Mispraising  what  they  look  on  ;  and  her  wit 
Values  itself  so  highly  that  to  her 
All  matter  else  seems  weak.     She  cannot  love 
Nor  take  no  shape  nor  project  of  affection. 
She  is  so  self-endeared. 

Ursula.  Sure,  I  think  so. 

And  therefore,  certainly,  it  were  not  good 
She  knew  his  love,  lest  she  make  sport  at  it. 

Hero.     Why,  you  speak  truth.     I  never  yet  saw  man, 
How  wise,  how  noble,  young,  how  rarely  featured, 
But  she  would  spell  him  backward.     If  fair-faced,  ^ 

She  'd  swear  the  gentleman  should  be  her  sister. 
If  black,  why,  nature,  drawing  of  an  antic, 
Made  a  foul  blot ;  if  tall,  a  lance  well  headed  j 
If  low,  an  agate  very  vilely  cut ; 
If  speaking,  why,  a  vane  blown  with  all  winds ; 
If  silent,  why,  a  block  moved  with  none. 
So  turns  she  every  man  the  wrong  side  out, 
And  never  gives  to  truth  and  virtue  that 
Which  simpleness  and  merit  purchaseth. 

Ursula.     Sure,  sure,  such  carping  is  not  commendable 

Hero.     No,  not  to  be  so  odd,  and  from  all  fashion, 
As  Beatrice  is,  cannot  be  commendable. 
But  who  dare  tell  her  so  .?     If  I  should  speak 
She  'd  mock  me  into  air.     O  !  she  would  laugh  me 
Out  of  myself  ;  press  me  to  death  with  wit ; 
Thenceforth  let  Benedick,  like  covered  fire, 
Consume  away  in  sighs,  waste  inwardly ; 
It  were  a  better  death  than  die  with  mocks ; 
Which  is  as  bad  as  die  with  tickling. 

Ursula.    Yet  tell  her  of  it ;  hear  what  she  will  say. 

Hero.     No.     Rather  will  I  go  to  Benedick 
And  counsel  him  to  fight  against  his  passion. 
And  truly  I  '11  devise  some  honest  slanders 
To  stain  my  cousin  with.     One  doth  not  know 
How  much  an  ill  word  may  empoison  liking. 

Ursula.     O  !  do  not  do  your  cousin  such  a  wrong  ; 
She  cannot  be  so  much  without  true  judgment 


2o8  Much  Ado  about  Nothing. 

(Having  so  swift  and  excellent  a  wit 
As  she  is  prized  to  have)  as  to  refuse 
So  rare  a  gentleman  as  Signior  Benedick. 

Hero.     He  is  the  only  man  of  Italy, — 
Always  excepted  my  dear  Claudio. 

Ursula.     I  pray  you,  be  not  angry  with  me,  madam. 
Speaking  my  fancy.     Signior  Benedick, 
For  shape,  for  bearing,  argument,  and  valor, 
Goes  foremost  in  report  through  Italy. 

Hero.     Indeed,  he  hath  an  excellent  good  name. 

\Exeunt  Hero  and  Ursula. 

Beatrice  [advancing].  What  fire  is  in  mine  ears  ?  Can  this  be  true  } 

•    Stand  I  condemned  for  pride  and  scorn  so  much  .!* 
Contempt,  farewell !  and  maiden  pride,  adieu  I 

No  glory  lives  but  in  the  lack  of  such. 
And,  Benedick,  love  on  ;  I  will  requite  thee,  — 
Taming  my  wild  heart  to  thy  loving  hand  ; 
If  thou  dost  love,  my  kindness  shall  incite  thee 

To  bind  our  loves  up  in  a  holy  band ; 
For  others  say  thou  dost  deserve,  and  I 
Believe  it  better  than  reportingly. 

Contrast  the  Beatrice  who  says  this  with  the  imaginary 
Beatrice  Claudio  and  the  Prince  drew  for  her.  There  is  but 
one  point  in  the  conversation  between  Hero  and  Ursula 
which  might  have  led  quick-witted  Beatrice  to  suspect  collu- 
sion. Had  the  conversation  been  genuine  we  may  be  sure 
that  Hero  never  would  have  allowed  Ursula's  speech  in  which 
she  sets  Benedick  above  the  "  dear  Claudio,"  to  pass  without 
rebuke. 

Scene  2. 

This  scene  takes  place  in  Leonato's  house.  The  Prince 
is  in  one  of  the  reception-rooms,  with  Benedick,  Claudio,  and 
Leonato  for  his  attendants.  Benedick  insists  he  has  the 
tooth-ache,  and  Claudio  and  Leonato  gibe  him,  because 
they  will   have  it  that  he  is  in  love.     We  find  out  he  has 


Much  Ado  about  Nothing.  209 

shaved  off  the  objectionable  beard,  and  that  he  looks  younger. 
But  he  has  hardly  a  word  at  command  with  which  to  parry 
or  return  the  jokes  aimed  at  him.  When  Benedick  and 
Leonato  retire  together  to  talk  of  Beatrice,  Don  John  enters 
and  proclaims  to  the  Prince  and  Claudio  that  Hero  is  a 
worthless  woman.  He  tells  them  that  a  man  will  talk  with 
her  that  night  at  her  chamber-window.  Claudio  never 
pauses  to  weigh  evidence,  —  to  put  what  he  knows  of  Hero 
into  the  balance,  and  poise  it  against  such  charges.  He  not 
only  believes  at  once  (the  coward  !)  but  proposes  the  most 
cruel  and  dishonoring  revenge.  Nothing  will  ever  reconcile 
me  to  Count  Claudio.  I  give  my  assent  to  his  marrying 
Hero  in  the  end  merely  and  solely  because  she  wishes  it,  .just 
as  I  give  my  consent  to  Will  Ladislaw  marrying  Dorothea 
Casaubon ;  but  I  never  shall  be  pleased  at  either  match,  even 
if  they  turned  out  pretty  well  (as  they  very  possibly  did  in 
both  cases).  Dorothea  may  have  fitted  her  elastic  ideal 
upon  Will,  as  she  had  already  fitted  it  to  Casaubon;  and 
Hero  was  so  quiet  and  gentle fthat  I  daresay  she  never  found 
out  the  deficiencies  of  her  husband,  provided  he  was  tolerably 
kind  to  her. 

Scene  3. 

This  scene  is  in  a  street,  where  we  encounter  the  immortal 
Dogberry  and  Verges.  Dogberry,  I  think,  is  a  bluff  constable, 
about  fifty,  a  well-to-do  tradesman  of  his  town  (which  was 
never  the  Sicilian  city  of  Messina,  but  Stratford-upon-Avon, 
or  some  place  in  its  vicinity).  Shakspeare  greatly  disliked 
beadles  and  constables,  the  petty  tyrants  of  a  parish  ;  and  in- 
deed, their  rule  must  have  been  dreadful,  especially  as  ap- 
plied to  tramps  and  vagrants  in  the  days  of  Queen  Elizabeth. 

14 


2IO  Much  Ado  about  Nothing, 

Verges  is  a  superannuated,  toothless  old  man  falling  into 
dotage. 

Dogberry  \to  the  watch  with  their  bills  and  a  lantern].  Are  you  good 
men,  and  true  ? 

Verges.  Yea,  or  else  it  were  a  pity  but  they  should  suffer  salvation, 
body  and  soul. 

Dogberry.  Nay,  that  were  a  punishment  too  good  for  them  if  they 
should  have  any  allegiance  in  them,  being  chosen  for  the  Prince's 
watch. 

Verges.     Well,  give  them  their  charge,  neighbor  Dogberry. 

Dogberry.  First,  who  think  you  the  most  desartless  man  to  be  a 
constable  ? 

1  Watchman.  Hugh  Oatcake,  sir,  or  George  Seacoal ;  for  they 
can  read  and  write. 

Dogberry.  Come  hither,  neighbor  Seacoal.  God  hath  blessed  you 
with"  a  good  name.  To  be  a  well-favored  man  is  a  gift  of  fortune,  but 
to  write  and  read  comes  by  nature. 

2  Watchman.     Both  which,  master  Constable  — 

Dogberry.  —  You  have.  I  knew  it  would  be  your  answer.  Well, 
for  your  favor,  sir,  why,  give  God  thanks,  and  make  no  boast  of  it ;  and 
for  your  writing  and  reading,  let  that  appear  when  there  is  no  need  of 
such  vanity.  You  are  thought  here  to  be  the  most  senseless  and  fit 
man  for  the  constable  of  the  watch;  therefore  bear  you  the  lantern. 
This  is  your  charge  :  you  shall  comprehend  all  vagrom  men  ;  you  are 
to  bid  any  man  stand  in  the  Prince's  name. 

2   Watchman.     How  if  he  will  not  stand  ? 

Dogberry.  Why,  then  take  no  note  of  him,  but  let  him  go ;  and 
presently  call  all  the  rest  of  the  watch  together,  and  thank  God  you 
are  rid  of  a  knave. 

Verges.  If  he  will  not  stand  when  he  is  bidden,  he  is  none  of  the 
Prince's  subjects. 

Dogberry.  True ;  and  they  are  to  meddle  with  none  but  the 
Prince's  subjects.  You  shall  also  make  no  noise  in  the  streets; 
for,  for  the  watch  to  babble  and  to  talk  is  most  tolerable  and  not 
to  be  endured. 

2  Watchma?i.  We  will  rather  sleep  than  talk ;  we  know  what 
belongs  to  a  watch. 

•    Dogberry.     Why,  you  speak  like  an  ancient  and  most  quiet  watch- 
man ;  for  I  cannot  see  how  sleeping  should  offend ;  only  have  a  care 


Much  Ado  about  Nothing,  211 

that  your  bills  be  not  stolen.  Well,  you  are  to  call  at  all  the  alehouses, 
and  bid  those  that  are  drunk  get  them  to  bed. 

2   Watchman,     How  if  they  will  not  ? 

Dogberry.  Why,  then  let  them  alone  till  they  are  sober.  If  they 
make  you  not  then  the  better  answer  you  may  say  they  are  not  the 
men  you  took  them  for.  If  you  meet  a  thief  you  may  suspect  him,  by 
virtue  of  your  office,  to  be  no  true  man  ;  and  for  such  kind  of  men  the 
less  you  meddle  or  make  with  them,  why,  the  more  is  for  your  honesty. 

2  Watchman.  If  we  know  him  to  be  a  thief  shall  we  not  lay  hands 
on  him  "i 

Dogberry.  Truly,  by  your  office  you  may,  but  I  think  they  that 
touch  pitch  will  be  defiled.  The  most  peaceable  way  for  you,  if  you 
take  a  thief,  is  to  let  him  show  himself  what  he  is,  and  steal  out  of 
your  company. 

Verges.    You  have  been  always  called  a  merciful  man,  partner, 

2  Watchman.  Well,  masters,  we  hear  our  charge.  Let  us  go,  sit 
here  upon  the  church-bench  till  two,  and  then  all  to  bed. 

Dogberry.  One  word  more,  honest  neighbors.  I  pray  you  watch 
about  Signior  Leonato's  door ;  for  the  wedding  being  there  to-morrow, 
there  is  a  great  coil  to-night.     Adieu  ;  be  vigilant,  I  beseech  you. 

Then,  as  these  guardians  of  the  night  seek  the  bench  in 
the  church-porch,  Conrade  and  Borachio  come  upon  the 
scene ;  the  latter  is  a  little  drunk,  and  much  elated  by  the 
stroke  of  business  he  has  done  that  night.  As  they  stand 
and  talk  under  shelter,  out  of  the  rain,  the  watch,  within 
earshot,  learns  that  Borachio  is  to  receive  of  Don  John  a 
thousand  ducats  for  talking  to  Margaret  the  waiting-woman 
at  Lady  Hero's  window,  while  the  Prince,  Claudio,  and  Don 
John  are  watching  from  the  orchard.  They  also  hear  some 
hadifiage  about  fashion,  Borachio  saying,  "  Seest  thou  not 
what  a  deformed  thief  this  Fashion  is?  "  The  word  "  thief*' 
catches  George  Seacoal's  ear.  He  instantly  cpncludes  that 
Deformed  is  their  accomplice,  and  when  they  are  arrested 
they  are  required  to  produce  Deformed. 


212  Much  Ado  about  Nothing, 

Scene  4. 

It  is  the  wedding-morning.  We  are  again  in  Leonato's 
house.  Hero  and  her  waiting-women  are  holding  counsel 
over  the  wedding-finery,  when  in  comes  Beatrice,  very  dis- 
traite and  nervous,  and  runs  the  gantlet  of  the  jokes  of  the 
waiting-maids.  Benedick  had  protested  he  had  tooth-ache  ; 
she  declares  that  she  has  caught  a  cold. 

Scene  5. 

The  wedding-hour  has  arrived,  the  wedding-party  has  as- 
sembled, when  the  Governor  is  called  out  to  see  two  malefac- 
tors, whom  the  watch  have  apprehended.  Had  he  examined 
them  there  would  have  been  na  further  story ;  but  Dogberry 
and  Verges,  who  have  brought  the  prisoners  for  commitment, 
are  sa  long  in  bringing  their  accusation  to  a  comprehensible 
point  that  the  Governor  cuts  the  matter  short  by  saying  that 
he  delegates  his  power  to  examine  and  commit  to,  Dogberry, 
and  that  they  had  better  deal  themselves  with  the  evil-doers. 
Observe  throughout  this  scene  the  true,  noble,  kindly  gentle- 
man in  Leonato,  giving  honor  even  to  his  inferiors,  and  never 
showing  his  impatience,  though  he  tries  to  make  them  get 
their  business  done  !  Imagine,  too,  the  swelling  importance  of 
Dogberry  upon  the  bench,  backed  up  by  his  familiar.  Verges. 

Leonato.     What  would  you  with  me,  honest  neighbors  ? 
Dogberry.     Marry,  sir,  I  would  have  some  confidence  with  you  that   \ 
decerns  you  nearly. 

Leonato.     Brief,  I  pray  you  ;  for  you  see,  't  is  a  busy  time  with  me.      \ 
Dogberry.     Marry,  that  it  is,  sir.  \ 

Verges.     Yes,  in  truth  it  is,  sir.  \ 

Dogberry.  Goodman  Verges,  sir,  speaks  a  little  off  the  matter,  —  an 
old  man,  sir,  and  his  wits  are  not  so  blunt  as,  God  help,  I  would  desire 
they  were ;  but,  in  faith,  honest  as  the  skin  between  his  brows. 


Much  Ado  about  Nothing,  213 

Verges.  Yes,  I  thank  God  I  am  as  honest  as  any  man  living,  that 
is  an  old  man  and  no  honester  than  I. 

Dogberry.     Comparisons  are  odorous  ;  palabras,  neighbor  Verges. 

Leonato.    Neighbors,  you  are  tedious. 

Dogberry.  It  pleases  your  worship  to  say  so  ;  but  we  are  the 
poor  Duke's  officers.  But  truly,  for  mine  own  part,  if  I  were  as 
tedious  as  a  king,  I  could  find  it  in  my  heart  to  bestow  it  all  of  your 
worship. 

Leotiato.    All  thy  tediousness  on  me  ?     Ha  ! 

Dogberry.  Yea,  and  't  were  a  thousand  times  more  than  't  is  ;  for  I 
hear  as  good  exclamation  of  your  worship  as  of  any  man  in  the  city. 
And  though  I  be  but  a  poor  man,  I  am  glad  to  hear  it.  .  .  . 

Leonato.  Take  the  examination  yourself,  and  bring  it  me.  I  am 
now  in  great  haste,  as  may  appear  to  you.  Drink  some  wine  ere  you 
go  ;  farewell. 

,  Act  IV.     Scene  i. 

You  will,  I  am  sure,  remark  that  Shakspeare,  in  that  age  of 
speaking  evil  of  the  clergy,  never  mentions  them  but  with 
respect.  Friar  Francis,  who  is  to  marry  Hero  and  Claudio, 
is  a  noble  old  man. 

In  the  most  brutal  manner,  at  the  moment  when  Claudio 
should  say,  "  I  will,"  in  the  marriage  ceremony,  he  flings  his 
bride  from  him.  He  spares  her  nothing.  He  is  not  minded 
to  put  the  hapless  girl  to  whom  he  is  affianced  "  away  privily." 
And  Don  Pedro,  exasperated  by  the  slight  put  upon  his 
princely  good  offices,  forgets  all  that  is  due  to  the  hon- 
orable and  hospitable  Leonato,  and  is  nearly  as  bad  as 
Claudio. 

Hero  is  astonished.  She  is  naturally  a  woman  of  few 
words.  Now  she  cannot  speak.  Even  Beatrice  is  struck  dumb, 
till  her  cousin  faints  and  falls,  when  she  springs  to  her  assist- 
ance. Old  Leonato,  too,  not  only  wavers,  but,  overwhelmed 
by  this  attack  upon  his  honor,  deems  his  Hero  guilty. 

When  Don  Pedro,  Don  John,  and  Claudio  leave   the 


214  Much  Ado  about  Nothing. 

church,  Benedick  remains.  He  is  not  the  man  to  desert  the 
woman  he  loves,  and  the  woman  that  she  loves,  in  extremity. 
He  draws  near  Beatrice,  and  speaks  tenderly  and  respectfully 
of  Hero. 

Benedick.     How  doth  the  lady  ? 

Beatrice.     Dead,  I  think.    Help,  uncle  !    Hero !    Why,  Hero  ?    Un- 
cle !     Signior  Benedick !     Friar  I 

Leonato.     O  Fate,  take  not  away  thy  heavy  hand  ! 
Death  is  the  fairest  cover  for  her  shame 
That  may  be  wished  for. 

Beatrice.  How  now,  cousin  Hero  } 

Friar.     Have  comfort,  lady. 

Leonato.  Dost  thou  look  up  ? 

Friar.     Yea ;  wherefore  should  she  not .-' 

Leonato.     Wherefore  ?     Why,  doth  not  every  earthly  thing 
Cry  shame  upon  her  ?    Could  she  here  deny 
The  story  that  is  printed  in  her  blood .? 
Do  not  live.  Hero  ;  do  not  ope  thine  eyes  ; 
For,  did  I  think  thou  wouldst  not  quickly  die, 
Myself  would,  on  the  hazard  of  reproaches. 
Strike  at  thy  life.     Grieved  I  I  had  but  one  ? 
Chid  I  for  that  at  frugal  nature's  frown  ? 
O,  one  too  much  by  thee  !     Why  had  I  one  ? 
Why  wast  thou  ever  lovely  in  my  eyes  .? 
Why  had  I  not,  with  charitable  hand, 
Took  up  a  beggar's  issue  at  my  gates .?  — 
Who  smirched  thus,  and  mired  with  infamy, 
I  might  have  said.  No  part  of  it  is  mine. 
But  mine  I  loved,  and  mine  I  praised, 
And  mine  that  I  was  proud  on  !  —  O,  she  is  fallen 
Into  a  pit  of  ink  1  that  the  wide  sea 
Hath  drops  too  few  to  wash  her  clean  again. 

Benedick.     Sir,  sir,  be  patient  I 
For  my  part  I  am  so  attired  in  wonder 
I  know  not  what  to  say. 

Beatrice.     O,  on  my  soul,  my  cousin  is  belied  ! 

Benedick.     Lady,  were  you  her  bedfellow  last  night  ? 

Beatrice.     No,  truly  not ;  although,  until  last  night, 
I  have  this  twelvemonth  been  her  bedfellow. 


Much  Ado  about  Nothing,  215 

Leonato.     Confirmed  !  confirmed !  .  .  . 
Would  the  two  princes  lie  ?  and  Claudio  lie  ?  — 
Who  loved  her  so  that,  speaking  of  her  foulness, 
Washed  it  with  tears  ?    Hence  from  her ;  let  her  die. 

Here  the  Friar  interposes.  He  bids  them  remark  every 
sign  of  innocence  in  her  sweet  face,  and  pledges  his  age,  his 
calling,  and  his  experience,  "that  the  sweet  lady  doth  lie 
guiltless  there  under  some  blighting  error." 

"  She  does  not  deny  her  guilt ! "  cries  Leonato. 
"  Lady,"  says  the  Friar,  "  what  man  is  he  you  are  accused 
of?" 

Hero.     They  know  that  do  accuse  me.     O  my  father, 
Prove  you  that  with  me  any  man  conversed 
At  hours  unmeet,  or  that  I  yesternight 
Maintained  the  change  of  words  with  any  creature,  — 
Refuse  me,  hate  me,  torture  me  to  death. 
Friar.    There  is  some  strange  misprision  in  the  princes. 
Benedick.     Two  of  them  have  the  very  bent  of  honor, 
And  if  their  wisdoms  be  misled  in  this, 
The  practice  of  it  lives  in  John  the  Bastard, 
Whose  spirits  toil  in  fraud  and  villanies. 

Then  in  measured  words  the  Friar,  with  soft  persuasion, 
endeavors  to  induce  Leonato  to  give  out  that  his  child  is 
dead,  slain  by  the  shock  of  so  terrible  an  accusation.  Thus 
she  will  win  the  pity  of  the  public,  and  even  that  of  those 
who  had  accused  her.  Meantime  her  friends  must  ferret 
out  evidence  on  which  she  may  be  cleared  from  foul  sus- 
picion. 

Benedick.     Signior  Leonato,  let  the  Friar  advise  you, 
And  though  you  know  my  inwardness  *nd  love 
Is  very  much  unto  the  Prince  and  Claudio, 
Yet,  by  mine  honor,  I  will  deal  in  this 
As  secretly  and  justly  as  your  soul 
Should  with  your  body. 


2i6  Much  Ado  about  Nothing, 

And  when  the  Friar  has  drawn  away  poor  Hero  and  her 
father,  Beatrice  and  Benedick  remain  alone  for  their  first 
scene  of  courting  :  — 

Benedick.    Lady  Beatrice,  have  you  wept  all  this  while  ? 

Beatrice.    Yea,  and  1  will  weep  a  while  longer. 

Benedick.     1  will  not  desire  that.  » 

Beatrice.    You  have  no  reason ;  I  do  it  freely. 

Benedick.     Surely,  I  do  believe  your  fair  cousin  is  wronged. 

Beatrice.  Ah,  how  much  might  the  man  deserve  of  me  that  would 
right  her. 

Benedick.     Is  there  any  way  to  show  such  friendship  ? 

Beatrice.    A  very  even  way,  but  no  such  friend. 

Benedick.     May  a  man  do  it  ? 

Beatrice.     It  is  a  man's  office,  but  not  yours. 

Benedick.  I  do  love  nothing  in  the  world  so  well  as  you ;  is  not 
that  strange .? 

Beatrice.  As  strange  as  the  thing  I  know  not.  ...  It  were  as  pos- 
sible for  me  to  say  I  loved  nothing  so  well  as  you.  But  believe  me 
not.  And  yet  I  lie  not.  I  confess  nothing,  nor  I  deny  nothing.  I 
am  sorry  for  my  cousin. 

Benedick.     By  my  sword,  Beatrice,  thou  lovest  me  ! 

Beatrice.    Do  not  swear  by  it  and  eat  it. 

Benedick.  I  will  swear  by  it  —  that  you  love  me,  and  I  will  make 
him  eat  it  that  says  I  love  ;iot  you. 

Beatrice.     Will  you  not  eat  your  word  ? 

Benedick.  With  no  sauce  that  can  be  devised  to  it.  I  protest  I 
love  thee. 

Beatrice.    Why  then,  God  forgive  me  I 

Benedick.     What  offence,  sweet  Beatrice  ? 

Beatrice.  You  have  stayed  me  in  a  happy  hour ;  I  was  about  to 
protest  I  loved  you. 

Benedick.     And  do  it  with  all  thy  heart. 

Beatrice.  I  love  you  with  so  much  of  my  heart  that  none  is  left  to 
protest. 

Benedick.    Come,  bid  me  do  anything  for  thee. 

Beatrice.     Kill  Claudio ! 

This  sudden  proposition  startles  Benedick,  who  is  hardly 
prepared  to  renounce  the  friend  he  loves,  and  to  become 


I 


Much  Ado  about  Nothing.  217 

his  slayer.     But  Beatrice  pours  out  her  very  just  opinion  of 
Count  Claudio. 

Is  he  not  approved  in  the  height  a  villain  that  hath  slandered, 
scorned,  dishonored  my  kinswoman  ?  Oh  that  I  were  a  man  !  What  I 
bear  her  in  hand  till  they  come  to  take  hands,  and  then,  with  public 
accusation,  uncovered  slander,  unmitigated  rancor,  —  O  God,  that 
I  were  a  man !     I  would  eat  his  heart  in  the  market-place  I 

In  vain  Benedick  tries  to  get  in  a  few  words.  Accusa- 
tions of  Claudio,  frantic  wishes  that  Heaven  had  made  her 
a  man  rush  from  the  lips  of  Beatrice.  At  last  she  stops  for 
want  of  breath,  and  bursts  into  a  flood  of  tears. 

Benedick.    Tarry,  good  Beatrice  ;  by  this  hand,  I  love  thee. 

Beatrice.     Use  it  for  my  love  some  other  way  than  swearing  by  it. 

Benedick.  Think  you  in  your  soul  the  Count  Claudio  hath 
wronged  Hero  ? 

Beatrice,     Yea  ;  as  sure  as  I  have  a  thought  or  a  soul. 

Benedick.  Enough ;  I  am  engaged ;  I  will  challenge  him.  I  will 
kiss  your  hand,  and  so  leave  you.  By  this  hand,  Claudio  shall  render 
me  a  dear  account.  As  you  hear  of  me,  so  think  of  me.  Go,  comfort 
your  cousin.     I  must  say  she  is  dead.     And  so  farewell. 

Scene  2. 

Then  ensues  the  examination  of  Conrade  and  Borachio  in 
their  prison.  Dogberry,  swollen  with  importance,  is  in  the 
seat  of  justice.  The  sexton,  who  really  knows  something  of 
the  formalities  proper  on  such  an  occasion,  tries  to  keep  up 
appearances,  and  confusion  worse  confounded  is  the  result. 
Observe  that  when  Conrade  replies  to  Dogberry's  "  Sirrah  " 
by  the  words,  ''I  am  a  gendeman,"  he  inspires  a  certain 
respect  which  saves  him  from  further  brow-beating  until  they 
come  to  bind  him.  Then  Dogberry  utters  the  words  which 
h5ve  made  him  immortal.  If  we  compare  this  scene  with 
Bunyan's  account  of  his  own  examination  by  country  jus- 


2i8  Much  Ado  about  Nothing. 

tices,  about  sixty  years  later,  as  recorded  in  the  examination 
of  Christian  and  Faithful  in  Vanity  Fair  we  shall  see  no 
cause  to  set  aside  Verges'  opinion  of  his  neighbor  Dogberry, 
that  he  had  "been  ever  considered  a  merciful  man." 

Dogberry.     Is  our  whole  dissembly  appeared  ? 

Verges.     O  !  a  stool  and  a  cushion  for  the  sexton. 

Sexton.     Which  be  the  malefactors  ? 

Dogberry.     Marry  that  am  I,  and  my  partner. 

Verges.    Nay,  that 's  certain  ;  we  have  the  exhibition  to  examine. 

Sexton.  But  which  are  the  offenders  to  be  examined  ?  Let  them 
come  before  master  Constable. 

Dogberry.  Yea,  marry ;  let  them  come  before  me.  What  is  your 
name,  friend  ? 

Borachio.     Borachio. 

Dogberry.     Pray  write  down,  Borachio.     Yours,  sirrah  ? 

Conrade.     I  am  a  gentleman,  sir,  and  my  name  is  Conrade. 

Dogberry.  Write  down,  master  gentleman  Conrade.  Masters,  do 
you  serve  God  t 

Conrade  and  Borachio.     Yea,  sir,  we  hope. 

Dogberry.  Write  down  that  they  hope  they  serve  God.  And 
write  God  first ;  for  God  defend  but  God  should  go  before  such  vil- 
lains. Masters,  it  is  proved  already  that  you  are  little  better  than 
false  knaves  ;  and  it  will  go  near  to  be  thought  so  shortly.  How 
answer  you  for  yourselves  .-* 

Conrade.    Marry,  sir,  I  say  we  are  none. 

Dogberry.  A  marvellous  witty  fellow,  I  assure  you ;  but  I  will  go 
about  with  him.  Come  you  hither,  sirrah  ;  a  word  in  your  ear,  sir  ;  I 
say  to  you,  it  is  thought  you  are  false  knaves. 

Borachio.     Sir,  I  say  to  you,  we  are  none. 

Dogberry.  Well,  stand  aside.  'Fore  God  they  are  both  in  a  tale. 
Have  you  writ  down  that  they  are  none  t 

Sexton.  Master  Constable  you  go  not  the  way  to  examine  ;  you 
must  call  forth  the  watch  that  are  their  accusers. 

Dogberry.  Yea,  marry ;  that  is  the  eftest  w^ay.  Let  the  watch 
come  forth.  Masters,  I  charge  you  in  the  Prince's  name,  accuse 
these  men. 

I  Watchman.  This  man  said,  sir,  that  Don  John,  the  Prince's 
brother,  was  a  villain. 


Much  Ado  about  Nothing,  219 

Dogberry.  Write  down,  Prince  John  a  villain.  Why,  this  is  flat 
perjury,  to  call  a  prince's  brother  a  villain  1 

Borachio.     Master  Constable  — 

Dogberry.  Pray  thee,  fellow,  peace.  I  do  not  like  thy  look,  I 
promise  thee. 

Sexton.     What  heard  you  him  say  else  ? 

I  Watchman.  Marry  that  he  had  received  a  thousand  ducats  of 
Don  John,  for  accusing  the  Lady  Hero  wrongfully. 

Dogberry.     Flat  burglary,  as  ever  was  committed. 

Verges.     Yea,  by  the  mass,  that  it  is. 

Sexton.     What  else,  fellow  t 

1  Watchman.  And  that  Count  Claudio  did  mean  upon  his  words 
to  disgrace  Hero  before  the  whole  assembly,  and  not  marry  her. 

Dogberry.     O   villain!    thou  wilt  be  condemned    into  everlasting 
redemption  for  this  ! 
Sexton.     What  else  ? 

2  Watchman.     This  is  all. 

Sexton.     And  this  is  more,  masters,   than  you  can  deny.     Prince 

John  is  this  morning  secretly  stolen  away ;  Hero  was  in  this  manner 

accused,  in  this  manner  refused,  and  upon  the  grief  of  this  suddenly 

'died.     Master  Constable,   let   these  men   be   bound   and   brought  to 

Leonato's  ;  I  will  go  before  and  show  him  their  examination. 

Dogberry.     Come,  let  them  be  opinioned. 

Sexton.     Let  them  be  bound. 

Conrade.     Hands  off,  coxcomb  ! 

Dogberry.  God  's  my  life !  where 's  the  sexton  ?  Let  him  write 
down  the  Prince's  officer,  coxcomb!  Come,  bind  them.  —  Thou 
naughty  varlet ! 

Conrade.     Away  !  you  are  an  ass  !  you  are  an  ass  I 

Dogberry.  Dost  thou  not  suspect  my  place  ?  Dost  thou  not  sus- 
pect my  years  ?  Oh  that  he  were  here  to  write  me  down  an  ass  I  But 
masters,  remember  that  I  am  an  ass !  though  it  be  not  written  down, 
yet  forget  not  that  I  am  an  ass.  No,  thou  villain,  thou  art  full  of 
piety,  as  shall  be  proved  upon  thee  by  good  witness.  I  am  a  wise 
fellow ;  and  which  is  more,  an  officer ;  and  which  is  more,  as  pretty 
a  piece  of  flesh  as  any  in  Messina;  and  one  that  knows  the  law, 
go  to;  and  a  rich  fellow  enough,  go  to;  and  a  fellow  that  hath 
had  losses ;  and  one  that  hath  two  gowns  and  everything  hand- 
some about  him  I  Bring  him  away.  Oh  that  I  had  been  writ 
down  an  ass ! 


220  Much  Ado  about  Nothing, 

Act  V.     Scene  i. 

The  opening  of  this  first  scene  is  between  poor  Leonato 
and  his  brother  Antonio.  The  old  father  has  recovered 
himself,  and  beheves  now  that  his  daughter  has  been  belied. 
It  is  very  affecting  when,  on  the  entrance  of  Don  Pedro  and 
Count  Claudio,  the  two  old  men  challenge  the  redoubtable 
young  soldier,  —  old  Antonio  (the  younger)  thrusting  himself 
forward  in  his  brother's  quarrel,  choked  for  want  of  words, 
calling  Claudio,  over  and  over  again,  Boy,  boy,  boy,  as  a 
term  of  reproach,  while  Leonato  tries  to  pacify  him.  It 
makes  one  furious  with  Claudio  and  the  Prince  to  hear, 
when  Benedick  comes  in  after  the  old  men  have  gone  away, 
how  they  talk  about  them. 

Don  Pedro.  Welcome,  signior.  You  are  almost  come  to  part 
almost  a  fray. 

Claudio.  We  had  like  to  have  had  our  two  noses  snapped  off  by 
two  old  men  without  teeth. 

Don  Pedro.  Leonato  and  his  brother.  What  think'st  thou  ?  had 
we  fought,  I  doubt  we  should  have  been  too  young  for  them. 

Benedick.  In  a  false  quarrel  there  is  no  true  valor.  I  came  to 
seek  you  both. 

Claudio.  We  have  been  up  and  down  to  seek  thee,  for  we  are  high- 
proof  melancholy,  and  would  fain  have  it  beaten  away.  Wilt  thou  use 
thy  wit } 

Benedick.     It  is  in  my  scabbard.     Shall  I  draw  it  t 

Don  Pedro.     Dost  thou  wear  thy  wit  by  thy  side  .'* 

Claudio.  Never  any  did  so,  though  very  many  have  been  beside 
their  wit.  I  will  bid  thee  draw,  as  we  do  the  minstrels.  Draw  to 
pleasure  us. 

Don  Pedro.  As  I  am  an  honest  man,  he  looks  pale.  Art  thou  sick, 
or  angry  ? 

Claudio.  What,  courage,  man !  What  though  care  killed  a  cat, 
thou  hast  metal  enough  in  thee  to  kill  care. 

Benedick.  Sir,  I  meet  your  wit  in  the  career,  an  you  charge  it 
against  me.     I  pray  you,  choose  another  subject. 


I 


Much  Ado  about  Nothing.  221 

Benedick  is  admirable  in  this  scene.  He  strives  to  keep 
himself  under  control.  He  wants  to  avoid  challenging 
Claudio  in  the  presence  of  the  Prince.  He  draws  him  aside 
and  whispers  his  challenge.  Don  Pedro  thinks  he  is  giving 
an  invitation  to  supper,  and  wants  it  to  include  himself.  He 
goes  on  jesting  about  Beatrice.  The  dignity  with  which 
Benedick  ignores  these  remarks,  and  takes  leave  of  the 
Prince,  raises  him  still  higher  in  our  estimation.  As  to 
the  Prince  and  Claudio,  they  sink  every  moment.  One  won- 
ders they  could  name  "  the  old  man's  daughter ;  "  one  won- 
ders that  the  tragic  scenes  through  which  they  had  just 
passed  had  not  put  the  merry  plot  they  had  engaged  in  out 
of  their  heads. 

Benedick  \to  Claudio].     Shall  I  speak  a  word  in  your  ear  ? 

Clandio.     God  bless  me  from  a  challenge  \ 

Beitedick.  You  are  a  villain  —  I  jest  not.  I  will  make  it  good  how 
you  dare,  with  what  you  dare,  when  you  dare.  Do  me  right,  or  I  will 
protest  your  cowardice.  You  have  killed  a  sweet  lady,  and  her  death 
shall  fall  heavy  on  you»    Let  me  hear  from  you. 

Claudio.     Well,  I  will  meet  you,  so  I  may  have  good  cheer. 

Don  Pedro.     What,  a  feast,  —  a  feast  ? 

Claudio.  V  faith,  I  thank  him.  He  hath  bid  me  to  a  calf  s-head 
and  capers  ;  the  which  if  I  do  not  carve  most  curiously,  say  my  knife  *s 
naught. 

Benedick.     Sir,  your  wit  ambles  well ;  it  goes  easily. 

Don  Fed7'o.  I  '11  tell  thee  how  Beatrice  praised  thy  wit  the  other 
day.  I  said  thou  hadst  a  fine  wit ;  True,  says  she,  a  fine  little  one. 
No,  said  I,  a  great  wit ;  Right,  says  she,  a  great  gross  one.  Nay, 
faith,  said  I,  a  good  wit ;  Just  so,  says  she,  it  hurts  nobody.  Nay,  said 
I,  the  gentleman  is  wise ;  Certain,  says  she,  a  wise  gentleman.  Nay, 
said  I,  he  hath  the  tongues;  That  I  believe,  said  she,  for  he  swore  a 
thing  to  me  on  Monday  night  which  he  forswore  on  Tuesday  morning. 
There  's  a  double  tongue  !  There 's  two  tongues  !  Thus  did  she  an 
hour  together  trans-shape  thy  particular  virtues ;  yet  at  last  she  concluded 
with  a  sigh  thou  wast  the  properest  man  in  Italy. 

Claudio.     For  the  which  she  wept  heartily,  and  said  she  cared  not. 


222  Much  Ado  about  Nothing. 

Don  Pedro,  Yes,  that  she  did.  But  yet  for  all  that,  an  if  she  did 
not  hate  him  dearly,  she  would  love  him  dearly.  The  old  man's 
daughter  told  us  all. 

Claiidio.     All,  all.  .  .  . 

Benedick.  Fare  you  well,  boy ;  you  know  my  mind.  I  will  leave 
you  now  to  your  gossip-like  humor.  You  break  jests  as  braggarts  do 
their  blades,  which,  God  be  thanked,  hurt  not.  My  lord,  for  your 
many  courtesies  I  thank  you  ;  I  must  discontinue  your  company. 
Your  brother,  Don  John,  is  fled  from  Messina ;  you  have  among  you 
killed  a  sweet  and  innocent  lady.  For  my  Lord  Lackbeard  there,  he 
and  I  shall  meet ;  and  till  then  peace  be  with  him. 

At  this  point  the  watch  bring  the  prisoners  before  the 
Prince.  You  will  observe  that,  Don  John  having  run  away, 
and  not  having  paid  Borachio  the  reward  of  his  villany,  the 
rascal,  dreading  torture,  and  finding  himself  in  a  strait,  makes 
a  merit  of  confession.  Some  touch  of  remorse  may  have 
visited  him,  too ;  for  it  is  a  sign  of  grace  in  him  that  he  up- 
holds the  innocence  of  Margaret. 

Don  Pedro.  How  now,  two  of  my  brother's  men  bound.?  Borachio 
one !     Officers,  what  offence  have  these  men  done  .-* 

Dogberry.  Marry,  sir,  they  have  committed  false  report ;  moreover, 
they  have  spoken  untruths ;  secondarily,  they  are  slanders  ;  sixth  and 
lastly,  they  have  belied  a  lady ;  thirdly,  they  have  verified  unjust  things ; 
and,  to  conclude,  they  are  lying  knaves. 

Don  Pedro.  Whom  have  you  offended,  masters,  that  you  are  thus 
bound  to  your  answer  ?  This  learned  constable  is  too  cunning  to  be 
understood.     What  is  your  offence  >. 

"  Sweet  Prince,"  cries  Borachio,  and  then  pours  forth  his 
confession,  overwhelming  with  shame  and  pity  Don  Pedro 
and  Claudio.  Their  self-accusations  are  broken  in  upon  by 
Dogberry,  who  insists  that  when  time  and  place  shall  serve 
it  must  be  remembered  that  he  is  an  ass. 

Then  Leonato  and  his  brother  enter,  with  the  sexton. 
By  him  they  have  been  told  the  truth.  Leonato  demands 
which  of  the  men  before  him  is  the  slanderer. 


Much  Ado  about  Nothing.  223 

Borachio.  Even  I,  alone. 

Leonato.     No,  not  so,  villain.     Thou  beliest  thyself. 
Here  stand  a  pair  of  honorable  men,  — 
A  third  has  fled  that  had  a  hand  in  it ; 
I  thank  you,  princes,  for  my  daughter's  death. 
Record  it  with  your  high  and  noble  deeds  ; 
'T  was  bravely  done,  if  you  bethink  you  of  it. 

The  Prince  and  Claudio  hang  their  heads  at  this  reproof, 
and  (the  least  they  can  do  under  the  circumstances)  offer  to 
submit  to  anything  the  old  man  may  demand  by  way  of 
expiation. 

Leonato  requires   of  Claudio   to  make  public  statement 

of  the  innocence  of  Hero,  and  then  to  marry  his  heiress, 

his  brother's  daughter,  who  strangely  resembles  her  cousin. 

Borachio,   he   says,   shall  be   confronted   with  the  wicked 

Margaret,  "  who,  I  believe,"  he  adds,  "  was  packed  in  all  this 

wrong." 

Borachio.  No,  by  my  soul,  she  was  not ; 

Nor  knew  she  what  she  did  when  she  spoke  to  me  ; 
But  always  hath  been  just  and  virtuous 
In  anything  that  I  do  know  of  her. 

Dogberry.  Moreover,  sir  (which  indeed  is  not  under  black  and 
white),  this  plaintiff  here,  the  offender,  did  call  me  ass.  I  beseech  you, 
let  it  be  remembered  in  his  punishment.  And  also,  the  watch  heard 
them  talk  of  one  Deformed.  .  .  .  Pray  you,  examine  him  upon  that 
point, 

Leonato.     I  thank  thee  for  thy  care  and  honest  pains. 

Dogberry.  Your  worship  speaks  like  a  most  thankful  and  rev- 
erend youth  ;  and  I  praise  God  for  you. 

Leonato.     There  's  for  thy  pains. 

Dogberry.     God  save  the  foundation. 

Leonato.     Go.     I  discharge  thee  of  thy  prisoner,  and  I  thank  thee. 

Dogberry.  I  leave  an  errant  knave  with  your  worship,  which  I  be- 
seech your  worship  to  correct  yourself  for  the  example  of  others.  God 
keep  your  worship  ;  I  wish  your  worship  well.  God  restore  you  to 
health.  I  humbly  give  you  leave  to  depart ;  and  if  a  merry  meeting 
may  be  wished,  God  prohibit  it.    Come,  neighbor. 


224  Much  Ado  about  Nothing. 

Scene  2. 

This  scene  is  between  Margaret,  —  quite  unabashed,  and 
possibly  unsuspicious  of  what  is  thought  of  her  behavior,  — 
and  Benedick ;  the  chief  point  of  which  is  Benedick's  total 
incapacity  for  poetry,  —  in  those  days  an  essential  part  of 
love-making. 

Then  enters  Beatrice,  who  is  seeking  Benedick  to  learn  if 
he  has  challenged  Claudio.  The  interview  ends  in  a  little  of 
their  peculiar  form  of  courtship,  of  which  Benedick  says  truly, 
"  Thou  and  I  are  too  wise  to  woo  peaceably." 

As  they  are  talking,  Ursula  bursts  in  upon  them  with  the 
news,  "  It  is  proved  my  Lady  Hero  hath  been  falsely  accused  ; 
the  Prince  and  Claudio  mightily  abused ;  and  Don  John  is 
the  author  of  all,  who  is  fled  and  gone." 

Scene  3. 

This  scene  is  in  a  church,  whither  Claudio  has  repaired, 
attended  by  Don  Pedro  and  his  court,  to  hang  garlands  upon 
Hero's  tomb,  while  musicians  play  a  solemn  dirge.  Claudio 
also  affixes  to  the  monument  a  poem  in  vindication  of  the 
memory  of  Hero,  and  vows  yearly  to  perform  similar  rites. 

Done  to  death  by  slanderous  tongues, 

Was  the  Hero  that  here  lies  ; 
Death,  in  guerdon  of  her  wrongs. 

Gives  her  fame  that  never  dies. 
So  the  life  that  died  with  shame 
Lives  in  death  with  glorious  fame. 

Scene  4. 

Is  in  a  room  in  Leonato's  house.     All  are  waiting  for  the 
marriage  ceremony.     Hero  is  standing  beside  her  father. 


Much  Ado  about  Nothing.  225 

Friar.  Did  I  not  tell  you  she  was  innocent  ? 

Leonato.     So  are  the  Prince  and  Claudio  who  accused  her, 
Upon  the  error  that  you  heard  debated ; 
But  Margaret  was  in  some  fault  for  this, 
Although  against  her  will,  as  it  appears 
In  the  true  course  of  all  the  question. 

Antonio.     Well,  I  am  glad  that  all  things  sort  so  well. 

Benedick,     And  so  am  I,  being  else  by  faith  enforced 
To  call  young  Claudio  to  a  reckoning  for  it. 

Leonato.     Well,  daughter,  and  you  gentlewomen  all. 
Withdraw  into  a  chamber  by  yourselves. 
And  when  I  send  for  you  come  hither  masked. 
The  Prince  and  Claudio  promised  by  this  hour 
To  visit  me.     You  know  your  office,  brother ; 
You  must  be  father  to  your  brother's  daughter, 
And  give  her  to  young  Claudio. 

Then  Benedick  entreats  the  Friar's  good  offices  for  his 
own  marriage,  and  looking  serious,  as  a  member  of  Leonato's 
family  might  well  look,  he  is  twitted  by  the  Prince  and 
Claudio,  who  have  no  seemly  seriousness  in  them.  I  think 
we  see  in  them  how  a  habit  of  perpetual  joking,  and  mock- 
ing, and  scoffing  deteriorates  the  character.  Benedick  and 
Beatrice  have  been  cured  of  it  just  in  time.  Claudio  says 
(for  the  bride  and  bridesmaids  come  in  masked),  "  Which 
is  the  lady  I  must  seize  upon?  "  And  then,  "  Sweet,  let  me 
see  your  face." 

Leonato.    No,  that  you  shall  not  till  you  take  her  hand 
Before  this  Friar,  and  swear  to  marry  her. 

Clazidio.     Give  me  your  hand  before  this  holy  Friar  ; 
I  am  your  husband  if  you  like  of  me. 

Hero  [unmasking].    And  while  I  lived  I  was  your  other  wife. 

Great  is  the  amazement  of  the  Prince,  but  in  Claudio,  to 
do  him  justice,  happiness  overpowers  wonder.  Benedick, 
stepping  up  to  the  bridesmaids,  asks  which  is  Beatrice  ? 

IS 


226  Much  Ado  about  Nothing, 

Beatrice.     I  answer  to  that  name  \unmasking\.     What  is  your  will  ? 

Benedick.    Do  not  you  love  me  ? 

Beatrice.  No,  no  more  than  reason. 

Benedick.     Why,  then  your  uncle,  and  the  Prince,  and  Claudio 
Have  been  deceived,  for  they  all  swore  you  did. 

Beatrice.    Do  not  you  love  me  ? 

Benedick.  No,  no  more  than  reason. 

Beatrice.     Why,  then  my  cousin,  Margaret,  and  Ursula 
Are  much  deceived,  for  they  did  swear  you  did. 

Benedick.    They  swore  that  you  were  almost  sick  for  me. 

Beatrice.    They  swore  that  you  were  almost  dead  for  me. 

Benedick.     It  is  no  such  matter.     Then  you  do  not  love  me  ? 

Beatrice.     No,  truly,  but  in  friendly  recompense. 

Leonato.    Come,  cousin,  I  am  sure  you  love  the  gentleman. 

Claudio.    And  I  '11  be  sworn  upon  't  that  he  loves  her ; 
For  here  's  a  paper  written  in  his  hand,  — 
A  halting  sonnet  of  his  own  pure  brain, 
Fashioned  to  Beatrice. 

Hero.  And  here  's  another, 

Writ  in  my  cousin's  hand,  stolen  from  her  pocket, 
Containing  her  affection  unto  Benedick. 

Benedick.  A  miracle  !  Here  's  our  own  hands  against  our  hearts  ! 
Come,  I  will  have  thee  ;  but,  by  this  light,  I  take  thee  for  pity. 

Beatrice.  I  would  not  deny  you ;  but,  by  this  good  day,  I  yield 
upon  great  persuasion,  and  partly  to  save  your  life ;  for  I  was  told 
you  were  in  a  consumption. 

Benedick.     Peace  !  I  will  stop  your  mouth.     \Kisses  her. 

Don  Pedro.    How  dost  thou.  Benedick  the  married  man  ? 

Benedick.  I'll  tell  you  what.  Prince,  a  college  of  wit-crackers 
cannot  flout  me  out  of  my  humor.  Dost  thou  think  I  care  for  a  satire 
or  an  epigram  ?  In  bri?f,  since  I  do  purpose  to  marry,  I  will  think 
nothing  to  any  purpose  that  the  world  can  say  against  it;  and  there- 
fore never  flout  at  me  for  what  I  have  said  against  it ;  for  man  is  a 
giddy  thing,  and  this  is  my  conclusion.  For  thy  part,  Claudio,  I  did 
think  to  have  beaten  thee ;  but  in  that  thou  art  like  to  be  my  kinsman, 
live  unbruised,  and  love  my  cousin. 

Lady  Martin  says  of  this  last  scene  :  "  In  the  encounter  of 
wits  Beatrice,  as  usual,  has  the  best  of  it,  but  Benedick  is 
too  happy  to  care  for  such  defeat.     He  knows  that  he  has 


Much  Ado  about  Nothing.  227 

won  her  heart,  and  that  it  is  a  heart  of  gold.  He  can  there- 
fore well  afford  to  smile  at  the  epigrams  of  a  college  of  wit- 
crackers,  and  at  the  quotations  against  himself  of  his  former 
smart  sayings  about  lovers  and  married  men.  His  home, 
I  doubt  not,  would  be  a  happy  one,  —  all  the  happier  because 
Beatrice  and  he  have  each  a  strong  individuality,  with  fine 
spirits,  and  busy  brains.  They  will  always  be  finding  out 
something  new  and  interesting  in  each  other's  characters. 
As  for  Beatrice,  at  least,  one  feels  sure  that  Benedick  will  have 
a  great  deal  to  discover  and  to  admire  in  her,  the  more  he 
knows  her."  And  she  adds,  remembering  her  own  tri- 
umphs as  an  actress  :  "  I  can  only  hope  that  in  impersonating 
her  I  have  given  one  half  the  pleasure  to  my  audience  that 
I  have  had  in  taking  upon  me  her  nature  for  a  time.  Such 
representations  were  to  me  a  pure  holiday.  However  tired 
I  might  be  when  the  play  began,  the  pervading  joyousness 
of  her  character  soon  took  hold  of  me,  and  led  me  de- 
lightedly on." 


AS   YOU    LIKE    IT. 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

THIS  play  is  a  pastoral,  a  tale  of  Arcady ;  and  Arcady 
with  Shakspeare  is  the  life  of  the  greenwood,  the  life 
led  by  Robin  Hood  and  his  men,  —  a  life  discontinued  since 
their  days  in  the  uncertain  climate  of  England,  but  revived 
among  ourselves  in  the  tent-life  and  camp-life  often  led  dur- 
ing the  summer  months  in  the  forests  or  on  the  mountains. 
The  whole  play  is  in  the  open  air,  and  in  the  sunshine,  and 
the  sunniest  thing  throughout  it  all  is  Rosalind.  The  course 
of  true  love  runs  smoothly  throughout,  hardly  rippled  except 
in  the  case  of  the  weak  Silvius  and  his  Phoebe. 

The  story  is  taken  from  a  pastoral  romance  by  one  Lodge, 
entitled  "  Rosalynde,"  which  was  founded  largely  on  a  story  in 
Chaucer.  Why  Shakspeare  called  it  ''As  You  Like  It,"  it  is 
difficult  to  say.  It  has,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  no  particular 
moral.  One  commentator  says  it  was  designed  to  contrast 
rural  with  court  life;  another,  that  it  preaches  the  virtues 
of  patience  and  contentment.  These  morals  I  think  are 
merely  incidental,  and  not  part  of  the  design.  Jaques, 
Touchstone,  Audrey,  and  William  are  entirely  the  work  of 
Shakspeare.  The  original  novel  was  affected,  sentimental, 
and  tedious,  but  it  contained  the  germs  of  the  other  char- 
acters. 


232  As  You  Like  It. 

Act  I.    Scene  i. 

The  first  scene  is  not  in  the  greenwood^  but  in  an  orchard, 
under  blossoming  boughs,  in  the  bright  days  of  early  summer. 
The  speakers  are  the  good  old  servant  Adam  (a  character 
that  Gilbert  Shakspeare,  who  lived  to  a  great  age,  remem- 
bered to  have  seen  acted  by  his  brother  William),  and 
Orlando,  the  youngest  son  of  Sir  Rowland  de  Bois. 

Orlando  is  perhaps  Shakspeare's  most  perfect  heros  de 
roman.  He  is  handsome,  stalwart,  modest,  proud,  perse- 
cuted, beloved,  generous,  and  chivalrous,  —  a  most  ideal 
lover.  His  father,  Sir  Rowland,  dying,  had  left  his  estates  to 
Oliver,  his  first-born,  but  had  charged  him  to  bring  up  his  two 
brothers  with  "all  good  breeding."  One  brother,  Jaques, 
he  sent  to  school,  where  he  "  did  goldenly ; "  but  Orlando, 
the  younger,  he  kept  at  home,  permitting  him  only  to  asso- 
ciate with  rustics,  and  to  pick  up  such  knowledge  as  might 
fall  in  his  way.  "As  far  as  in  him  lies,"  says  the  poor 
youth,  "  my  brother  mines  my  gentility  with  my  educa- 
tion." 

Oliver  entering  the  orchard,  the  brothers  come  to  words 
with  one  another.  I  confess  I  do  not  understand  Oliver. 
To  me  he  seems  a  mean,  disloyal  villain;  but  Shakspeare 
could  not  have  mated  his  sweet  tlelia  to  a  man  of  corrupt 
heart.  However,  in  this  first  scene  he  is  clearly  detestable. 
Note  that  when  Oliver  contemptuously  calls  his  brother, 
"  Boy  ! "  he  seizes  him  at  the  same  moment,  to  throw  him 
down.  Orlando,  though  the  younger,  knows  his  superior 
strength,  and  will  do  no  more  than  free  himself  from  his 
brother's  grasp,  and  then  hold  him  at  arms'  length  till  he  has 
listened  to  what  he  has  to  say  to  him. 


As  You  Like  It,  233 

Adam.     Yonder  comes  my  master,  your  brother. 

Orlando.  Go  apart,  Adam,  and  thou  shalt  hear  how  he  will  shake 
me  up. 

Oliver.     Now,  sir  1  what  make  you  here  I 

Orlando.     Nothing :  I  am  not  taught  to  make  anything. 

Oliver.     What  mar  you  then,  sir  ? 

Orlando.  Marry,  sir,  I  am  helping  you  to  mar  that  which  God 
.  made,  a  poor  unworthy  brother  of  yours,  with  idleness. 

Oliver.     Marry,  sir,  be  better  employed,  and  be  naught  a  while. 

Orlando.  Shall  I  keep  your  hogs,  and  eat  husks  with  them.> 
What  prodigal  portion  have  I  spent,  that  I  should  come  to  such 
penury.*^ 

Oliver.     Know  you  where  you  are,  sir  t 

Orlando.     O,  sir,  very  well :  here  in  your  orchard. 

Oliver.    Know  you  before  whom,  sir  ? 

Orlando.  Ay,  better  than  he  I  am  before  knows  me.  I  know  you 
are  my  eldest  brother,  and,  in  the  gentle  condition  of  blood,  you  should 
so  know  me.  The  courtesy  of  nations  allows  you  my  better,  in  that 
you  are  the  first-born;  but  the  same  tradition  takes  not  away  my 
blood  were  there  twenty  brothers  betwixt  us.  I  have  as  much  of  my 
father  in  me  as  you ;  albeit  I  confess,  your  coming  before  me  is  nearer 
to  his  reverence. 

Oliver.     What,  boy ! 

Orlando.     Come,  come,  elder  brother,  you  are  too  young  in  this. 

Oliver.     Wilt  thou  lay  hands  on  me,  villain  ? 

Orlando.  I  am  no  villain  :  I  am  the  youngest  son  of  Sir  Rowland 
de  Bois  ;  he  was  my  father ;  and  he  is  thrice  a  villain  that  says  such  a 
father  begot  villains.  Wert  thou  not  my  brother,  I  would  not  take  this 
hand  from  thy  throat  till  this  other  had  pulled  out  thy  tongue  for  say- 
ing so ;  thou  hast  railed  on  thyself. 

Adam.  Sweet  masters,  be  patient ;  for  your  father's  remembrance, 
be  at  accord. 

Oliver.    Let  me  go,  I  say. 

Orlando.  I  will  not  till  I  please ;  you  shall  hear  me.  My  father 
charged  you  in  his  will  to  give  me  good  education  ;  you  have  trained 
me  like  a  peasant,  obscuring  and  hiding  from  me  all  gentleman-like 
qualities.  The  spirit  of  my  father  grows  strong  in  me,  and  I  will  no 
longer  endure  it ;  therefore  allow  me  such  exercises  as  may  become  a 
gentleman,  or  give  me  the  poor  allottery  my  father  left  me  by  testa- 
ment,; with  that  I  will  go  buy  my  fortunes. 


234  •^•^  ^ou  Like  It, 

Oliver.  And  what  wilt  thou  do,  —  beg,  when  that  is  spent  ?  Well, 
sir,  get  you  in ;  I  will  not  long  be  troubled  with  you.  You  shall  have 
some  part  of  your  will;  I  pray  you,  leave  me. 

Orlando.  I  will  no  further  offend  you  than  becomes  me  for  my 
good. 

Oliver.    Get  you  with  him,  you  old  dog. 

Adam.  Is  "  old  dog  "  my  reward .?  Most  true,  I  have  lost  my  teeth 
in  your  service.  God  be  with  my  old  master,  he  would  not  have  spoke 
such  a  word. 

There  waits  without,  Charles,  the  Duke's  wrestler,  a  good- 
natured,  but  brutal  athlete,  who  has  come  thither  with  a  kind 
intention,  but  has  neither  wit  nor  moral  purpose  enough  to 
stick  to  it  when  he  finds  that  a  crime  would  be  acceptable  to 
his  social  superior.  His  kindness  was  a  mere  impulse,  — 
when  opposed  by  self-interest  it  withers  away. 

Charles.    Good  morrow  to  your  worship. 

Oliver.  Good  Monsieur  Charles,  what 's  the  new  news  at  the  new 
court  ? 

Charles.  There 's  no  news  at  the  court,  sir,  but  the  old  news,  —  that 
is,  that  the  Duke  is  banished  by  his  younger  brother  the  new  Duke  ; 
and  three  or  four  loving  lords  have  put  themselves  into  voluntary  exile 
with  him,  whose  land  and  revenues  enrich  the  new  Duke ;  therefore  he 
gives  them  good  leave  to  wander. 

Oliver.  Can  you  tell  if  Rosalind,  the  old  Duke's  daughter,  be  ban- 
ished with  her  father  ?  ' 

Charles.  O,  no,  for  the  new  Duke's  daughter,  her  cousin,  so  loves 
her,  being  ever  from  their  cradles  bred  together,  that  she  would  have 
followed  her  to  exile,  or  have  died  to  stay  behind  her.  She  is  at  the 
court,  and  no  less  beloved  of  her  uncle  than  his  own  daughter.  And 
never  two  ladies  loved  as  they  do. 

Oliver.    Where  will  the  old  Duke  live  ? 

Charles.  They  say  he  is  already  in  the  Forest  of  Arden,  and  a 
many  merry  men  with  him ;  and  there  they  live  like  the  old  Robin 
Hood  of  England.  They  say  many  young  gentlemen  flock  to  him 
every  day,  and  fleet  the  time  carelessly,  as  they  did  in  the  golden 
world. 

Oliver.    What,  you  wrestle  to-morrow  before  the  new  Duke  ? 


As  You  Like  IL  235 

Charles.  Marry,  do  I,  sir ;  and  I  came  to  acquaint  you  with  a 
matter.  I  am  given,  sir,  secretly  to  understand  that  your  younger 
brother,  Orlando,  hath  a  disposition  to  come  in  disguised  against  me 
to  try  a  fall.  To-morrow,  sir,  I  wrestle  for  my  credit ;  and  he  that 
escapes  me  without  some  broken  limb  shall  acquit  him  well.  Your 
brother  is  but  young,  and  tender ;  and  for  your  love,  I  would  be  loath 
to  foil  him,  as  I  must  for  my  own  honor,  if  he  come  in :  therefore,  out 
of  my  love  to  you,  I  came  hither  to  acquaint  you  withal ;  that  either 
you  might  stay  him  from  his  intendment,  or  brook  such  disgrace  well 
as  he  shall  run  into;  in  that  it  is  a  thing  of  his  own  search,  and  alto- 
gether against  my  will. 

Oliver.  Charles,  I  thank  thee  for  thy  love  to  me,  which  thou  shalt 
find  I  will  most  kindly  requite.  I  had  myself  notice  of  my  brother's 
purpose  herein,  and  have  by  underhand  means  labored  to  dissuade 
him  from  it  j  but  he  is  resolute.  I'll  tell  thee,  Charles,  —  it  is  the 
stubbornest  young  fellow  of  France  ;  full  of  ambition,  an  envious  emu- 
lator of  every  man's  good  parts,  a  secret  and  villanous  contriver 
against  me,  his  natural  brother.  Therefore,  use  thy  discretion ;  I  had  as 
lief  thou  didst  break  his  neck  as  his  finger.  And  thou  wert  best  look 
to 't ;  for  if  thou  dost  him  any  slight  disgrace,  or  if  he  do  not  mightily 
grace  himself  on  thee,  he  will  practise  against  thee  by  poison,  entrap 
thee  by  some  treacherous  device,  and  never  leave  thee  till  he  hath  ta'en 
thy  life  by  some  indirect  means  or  other :  for  I  assure  thee,  and  almost 
with  tears  I  speak  it,  there  is  not  one  so  young  and  so  villanous  this 
day  living.  I  speak  but  brotherly  of  him ;  but  should  I  anatomize 
him  to  thee  as  he  is,  I  must  blush  and  weep,  and  thou  must  look  pale 
and  wonder. 

Charles.  I  am  heartily  glad  I  came  hither  to  you.  If  he  come  to- 
morrow, I  '11  give  him  his  payment.  If  ever  he  go  alone  again,  I  '11 
never  wrestle  for  prize  more.     And  so,  God  keep  your  worship ! 

\Exit. 

Oliver.  Farewell,  good  Charles.  Now  will  I  stir  this  gamester. 
I  hope  I  shall  see  an  end  of  him ;  for  my  soul,  yet  I  know  not  why, 
hates  nothing  more  than  he.  Yet  he 's  gentle ;  never  schooled  and  yet 
learned  ;  full  of  noble  device;  of  all  sorts  enchantingly  beloved;  and, 
indeed,  so  much  in  the  heart  of  the  world,  and  especially  of  my 
own  people  who  best  know  him,  that  I  am  altogether  misprized. 
But  it  shall  not  be  so  long  I  This  wrestler  shall  clear  all.  Noth- 
ing remains  but  that  I  kindle  the  boy  thither;  which  now  I'll  go 
about. 


236  As  You  Like  It, 

This  last  speech  is  one  of  the  puzzles  that  concern  Oliver. 
How  could  a  man  not  utterly  sold  to  the  devil  give  such  a 
character  of  his  brother,  and  yet  be  planning  his  destruction 
and  disgrace  ?  I  confess  I  can  throw  little  light  on  Oliver. 
Perhaps  as  you  read  over  the  play  something  may  suggest 
itself  to  yourselves. 

Orlando  is  presented  to  us  just  as  he  is  awakening  into 
manhood.  He  has  looked  about  him,  and  appreciates  his 
position.  He  has  no  career  before  him,  by  reason  of  his 
defective  bringing  up,  but  he  longs  to  go  forth  into  the  world ; 
and  knowing  himself  to  be  at  least  a  practised  athlete,  —  hav- 
ing long  tried  his  strength  among  the  rustics  on  his  brother's 
farm,  —  he  proposes,  secretly,  as  we  have  heard,  to  appear  at 
court  and  try  his  strength  with  the  Duke's  wrestler. 

Scene  2. 

In  this  scene  we  are  introduced  to  Rosalind.  She  and 
Celia  are  another  pair  of  Shakspeare's  sweet  girl-friends. 
Of  Rosalind,  Lady  Martin  says :  "  Hers  is  a  sweet,  com- 
posite nature,  joyous,  buoyant,  and  deep  womanly.  She 
has  tenderness,  and  an  active  intellect,  disciplined  by 
fine  culture  as  well  as  tempered  by  a  certain  native 
distinction."  Indeed,  in  Rosalind  throughout  there  is 
such  a  flavor  of  high  breeding  that  I  cannot  conceive 
how  the  part  could  be  acted  by  any  woman  who  was  not 
a  lady. 

Mrs.  Jameson  says  of  her :  "  She  is  fresh  as  the  morning, 
light  as  the  breeze.  She  is  as  witty,  voluble,  and  sprightly 
as  Beatrice,  but  in  a  style  altogether  distinct.  In  both  the 
wit  is  equally  unconscious ;  but  in  Beatrice  it  plays  about  us 
like  the  lightning,  dazzling  but  also  alarming,  while  the  wit 


As  You  Like  IL  237 

of  Rosalind  bubbles  up  and  sparkles  like  the  living  fountain, 
refreshing  all  around." 

The  merry  greenwood  is  the  fit  setting  for  Rosalind.  Celia 
needs  from  her  none  of  the  protecting,  patronizing  care  that 
Hero  receives  from  Beatrice.  Indeed,  up  to  the  time  the 
play  opens  Celia  has  been  the  protectress  of  her  cousin.  We 
already  know  their  story,  —  how  Rosalind's  father,  having 
neglected  his  ducal  duties,  like  Prospero,  has  been  detlironed 
and  banished  by  his  brother  Frederick,  Celia's  father.  Rosa- 
lind had  been  kept  at  court  as  companion  and  playfellow  to 
her  cousin  Celia ;  but  the  usurping  Duke,  finding  how  popular 
her  graces  make  her,  is  beginning  to  be  jealous  of  her. 
Dearly  as  Rosalind  loves  Celia,  and  little  (it  appears)  as  she 
has  known  her  banished  father,  she  cannot  forget  his  wrongs. 
Celia  believes  herself  more  matter-of-fact,  and  less  romantic 
than  Rosalind.  "  She  is,"  says  the  "  Monthly  Packet,"  "  a 
very  charming  little  lady,  with  her  loving  heart,  and  generous 
ways;  always  thinking  how  she  may  compensate  for  her 
father's  misdeeds,  though  continually,  as  she  owns,  '  stabbed 
by  his  harsh  and  jealous  temper.'  She  has  a  pretty  dignity 
about  her,  suiting  her  position,  and  a  decided  fashion  of  re- 
pressing any  approach  to  a  liberty ;  but  this  is  no  check  to 
her  frank  gayety  when  chatting  alone  with  Rosalind  or  whil- 
ing  away  leisure  moments  with  the  court  fool.  Touchstone." 
Celia's  description  of  herself  would  have  been  that  she  was 
practical,  quiet,  and  sensible,  yet  in  the  end  she  belies  all 
these  qualities.  People  in  common  life,  like  certain  char- 
acters in  the  Bible,  generally  fail  upon  the  very  points  in 
which  they  consider  themselves  most  secure. 

When  the  two  girls  first  appear  before  us  Celia  is  exhorting 
her  cousin  to  be  merry.     Now,  merriment  was  in  Rosalind's 


238  As  You  Like  It. 

very  nature.  We  fancy  she  has  been  saddened  by  perceiving 
how  precarious  her  position  is  fast  becoming  at  court;  by 
anxieties  about  her  future,  —  such  anxieties,-  in  short,  as  were 
beginning,  as  we  have  seen,  to  weigh  heavily  on  Orlando ;  anx- 
ieties which  present  themselves  with  keen  vividness  to  every 
thoughtful  girl  or  man, 

"  Standing  with  reluctant  feet 
Where  the  brook  and  river  meet,"  — 

at  the  entrance  into  maturity. 

As  girls  will  do,  the  cousins  talk  of  love,  and,  as  girls  will 
also  do,  they  make  sport  of  it.  Rosalind  utters  a  truth  to 
which  she  lived  to  be  an  exception,  namely,  that  the  sweetest 
girls  are  apt  to  be  to  men  the  least  attractive.  As  I  have 
often  said,  God  seems  to  keep  his  noblest  women  unmar- 
ried, that  they  may  do  the  work  that  married  women  are 
withheld  from  doing.  As  Rosalind  and  Ceha  make  play 
with  their  keen  wits,  there  comes  in  the  court  fool,  Touch- 
stone. The  fools  of  old  times  were  usually  scatter-brained 
men,  noted  for  their  cleverness  (in  a  certain  way).  They 
acted  to  court-life  like  the  chorus  to  the  characters  in  a 
Greek  play.  They  were  privileged  to  say  anything  they 
pleased,  subject  to  being  whipped  if  they  became  offensive. 
\  They,  and  they  ojily^  could  tell  their  lord  home  truths.  They 
^  ^  met  him  on  an  equality,  just  because  of  an  inferiority  of 
^ystation  so  absolute  that  there  was  no  disputing  it,  —  exactly 
as  we  can  be  on  more  familiar  terms  with  a  trusted  colored 
servant  than  we  can  be  with  a  white  one.  Touchstone  had 
probably  known  the  girls  from  their  babyhood,  and  is  all 
ready  with  his  jokes  as  soon  as  they  come  together. 

Touchstone.    Mistress,  you  must  come  away  to  your  father. 
Celia.    Were  you  made  the  messenger  ? 


As  Vou  Like  //.      '  239 

Touchstone.    No,  by  mine  honor  ;  but  I  was  bid  to  come  for  you. 

Rosalind.     Where  learned  you  that  oath,  fool  ? 

Touchstone.  Of  a  certain  knight,  that  swore  by  his  honor  they 
were  good  pancakes,  and  swore  by  his  honor  the  mustard  was  naught. 
Now,  I'll  stand  to  it  the  pancakes  were  naught,  and  the  mustard  was 
good ;  and  yet  was  not  the  knight  forsworn. 

Celia.  How  prove  you  that,  in  the  great  heaps  of  your  knowl- 
edge ? 

Rosalind.    Ay,  marry ;  now  unmuzzle  your  wisdom. 

Touchstone.  Stand  you  both  forth  now;  stroke  your  chins,  and 
swear  by  your  beards  that  I  am  a  knave. 

Celia.     By  our  beards,  if  we  had  them,  thou  art. 

Touchstone.  By  my  knavery,  if  I  had  it,  then  I  were ;  but  if  you 
swear  by  that  that  is  not,  you  are  not  forsworn.  No  more  was  this 
knight,  swearing  by  his  honor,  for  he  never  had  any  ;  or  if  he  had, 
he  had  sworn  it  away  before  ever  he  saw  those  pancakes  or  that 
mustard. 

As  they  jest,  in  comes  a  courtier,  —  Monsieur  le  Beau  ;  his 
entrance  being  prefaced  by  Celia's  remark  that  "  the  little 
foolery  that  wise  men  have  makes  a  great  show." 

Le  Beau  in  his  first  speech  mincingly  promises  the  ladies 
"  spot  "  (sport),  and  Celia  mimics  him. 

Le  Beau.    Fair  princess,  you  have  lost  much  good  spot. 

Celia.     Spot  ?     Of  what  color  ? 

Le  Beau.     What  color,  madam  .?    How  shall  I  answer  you  ? 

Rosalind.     As  wit  and  fortune  will. 

Touchstone.     Or  as  the  destinies  decree. 

Le  Beau.  You  amaze  me,  ladies :  I  would  have  told  you  of  good 
wrestling,  which  you  have  lost  the  sight  of 

Rosalind.     Yet  tell  us  the  manner  of  the  wrestling. 

Le  Beau.  I  will  tell  you  the  beginning,  and  if  it  please  your  lady- 
ships, you  may  see  the  end  ;  for  the  best  is  yet  to  do  ;  and  here,  where 
you  are,  they  are  coming  to  perform  it. 

Celia.     Well,  —  the  beginning,  that  is  dead  and  buried. 

Le  Beau.    There  comes  an  old  man,  and  his  three  sons,  — 

Celia.     I  could  match  this  beginning  with  an  old  tale. 

Le  Beau.  Three  proper  young  men,  of  excellent  growth  and  pres- 
ence, — 


240  *       As  You  Like  It, 

Rosalind.  With  bills  on  their  necks,  —  Be  it  known  unto  all  men 
by  these  presents. 

Le  Beau.  The  eldest  of  the  three  wrestled  with  Charles,  the  Duke's 
wrestler ;  which  Charles  in  a  moment  threw  him,  and  broke  three  of 
his  ribs,  that  there  is  little  hope  of  life  in  him  :  so  he  served  the  second, 
and  so  the  third.  Yonder  they  lie ;  the  poor  old  man,  their  father, 
making  such  pitiful  dole  over  them  that  all  the  beholders  take  his  part 
with  weeping. 

Rosalind,     Alas ! 

Touchstone.  But  what  is  the  sport,  monsieur,  that  the  ladies  have 
lost .? 

Le  Beau.     Why,  this  that  I  speak  of. 

Touchstone.  Thus  men  may  grow  wiser  every  day !  it  is  the  first 
time  that  ever  I  heard  breaking  of  ribs  was  sport  for  ladies. 

Celia.     Or  I,  I  promise  thee. 

Rosalind.  But  is  there  any  else  longs  to  see  this  broken  music  in 
his  sides.''  is  there  yet  another  dotes  upon  rib-breaking?  Shall  we 
see  this  wrestling,  cousin  ? 

The  girls  dread  seeing  the  wrestling,  yet  they  resolve  to 
stay,  in  hopes  of  putting  a  check  upon  its  cruelty ;  and  their 
subsequent  inability  to  withdraw  their  eyes  from  the  cham- 
pion who  has  interested  them  is  all  true  womanly. 

"This  scene  of  the  wrestling,"  says  the  ''  Monthly  Packet," 
"  is  picturesque  in  itself.  .  The  courtiers  pour  out  upon  the 
quiet  lawn;  the  pages  come  and  mark  the  ring;  presently 
Duke  Frederick  arrives,  followed  by  the  unequal-looking 
combatants,  Orlando's  youthful  grace  contrasting  with  Charles' 
fully  developed  strength.  This  contrast  evidently  has  in- 
spired the  Duke  with  an  unusual  measure  of  interest,  which 
we  see  in  his  efforts  to  dissuade  Orlando  from  the  struggle, 
even  to  the  degree  of  desiring  the  Princesses  to  try  and 
influence  him.  Celia's  pretty  stateliness  is  very  charming, 
as  she  gently  represents  to  Orlando  that  he  is  very  fool- 
hardy; and  Rosahnd  chimes  in  with  more  direct  entreaty, 
and  a  device  for  saving  the  credit  of  the  young  champion. 


As  You  Like  It.  241 

He  cannot  yield  the  point  even  to  them.  He  may  not  be 
very  sanguine  of  success,  but  he  has  a  crowd  of  boyish  reasons 
for  wanting  to  break  his  neck,  —  which  seem  drawn  out  of 
him  by  the  girls'  sympathetic  eyes." 

Duke  Frederick.  Come  on ;  since  the  youth  will  not  be  entreated, 
his  own  peril  on  his  forwardness. 

Rosalind.     Is  yonder  the  man  ? 

Le  Beau.     Even  he,  madam. 

Celia.    Alas  !  he  is  too  young ;  yet  he  looks  successfully. 

Duke  Frederick.  How  now,  daughter  and  cousin  ?  are  you  crept 
hither  to  see  the  wrestling? 

Rosalind.     Ay,  my  liege  ;  so  please  you  give  us  leave. 

Duke  Frederick.  You  will  take  little  delight  in  it,  I  can  tell  you ; 
there  is  such  odds  in  the  men.  In  pity  of  the  challenger's  youth  I 
would  fain  dissuade  him,  but  he  will  not  be  entreated.  Speak  to  him, 
ladies  ;  see  if  you  can  move  him.  [  The  Duke  goes  apart. 

Le  Beau.    Monsieur  the  challenger,  the  Princesses  call  for  you. 

Orlando.     I  attend  them  with  all  respect  and  duty. 

Rosalind,     Young  man,  have  you  challenged  Charles,  the  wrestler  ? 

Orlando.  No,  fair  Princess  ;  he  is  the  general  challenger.  I  come 
but  in,  as  others  do,  to  try  with  him  the  strength  of  my  youth. 

Celia.  Young  gentleman,  your  spirits  are  too  bold  for  your  years. 
You  have  seen  cruel  proof  of  this  man's  strength.  If  you  saw  your- 
self with  our  eyes,  or  knew  yourself  with  our  judgment,  the  fear  of  your 
adventure  would  counsel  you  to  a  more  equal  enterprize.  We  pray 
you,  for  your  own  sake,  to  embrace  your  own  safety,  and  give  over  this 
attempt. 

Rosalind.  Do,  young  sir ;  your  reputation  shall  not  therefore  be 
misprized :  we  will  make  it  our  suit  to  the  Duke,  that  the  wrestling 
might  not  go  forward. 

Orlando.  I  beseech  you,  punish  me  not  with  your  hard  thoughts  ; 
wherein  I  confess  me  much  guilty,  to  deny  so  fair  and  excellent  ladies 
anything.  But  let  your  fair  eyes  and  gentle  wishes  go  with  me  to  my 
trial ;  wherein  if  I  be  foiled,  there  is  but  one  shamed  that  was  never 
gracious  ;  if  killed,  but  one  dead  that  is  willing  to  be  so :  I  shall  do 
my  friends  no  wrong,  for  I  have  none  to  lament  me ;  the  world  no  in- 
jury, for  in  it  I  have  nothing ;  only  in  the  world  I  fill  up  a  place,  which 
may  be  better  supplied  when  I  have  made  it  empty. 

16 


242  As  Vou  Like  It. 

Rosalind.    The  little  strength  that  I  have,  I  would  it  were  with  you. 

Celia.     And  mine,  to  eke  out  hers. 

Rosalind.     Fare  you  well.     Pray  heaven,  I  be  deceived  in  you. 

Celia.  Your  heart's  desires  be  with  you  ! 

Charles.  Come,  where  is  this  young  gallant,  that  is  so  desirous  to 
lie  with  his  mother  earth  ? 

Orlando.  Ready,  sir  ;  but  his  will  hath  in  it  a  more  modest  work- 
ing. 

Duke  Frederick.    You  shall  try  but  one  fall. 

Charles.  No,  I  warrant  your  grace  ;  you  shall  not  entreat  him  to 
a  second,  that  have  so  mightily  persuaded  him  from  a  first. 

Orlando.  You  mean  to  mock  me  after ;  you  should  not  have 
mocked  me  before  :  but  come  your  ways. 

Rosalind.     Now,  Hercules  be  thy  speed,  young  man  I 

Celia.  I  would  I  were  invisible,  to  catch  the  strong  fellow  by  the 
leg.  \Charles  and  Orlando  wrestle. 

Rosalind.     O  excellent  young  man  1 

Celia.  If  I  had  a  thunderbolt  in  mine  eye,  I  can  tell  who  should 
down.  \Charles  is  thrown.     Shout. 

Duke  Frederick.     No  more,  no  more. 

Orlando.    Yes,  I  beseech  your  grace ;  I  am  not  yet  well  breathed. 

Duke  Frederick.     How  dost  thou,  Charles  ? 

Le  Beau.     He  cannot  speak,  my  lord. 

Duke  Frederick.     Bear  him  away.     What  is  thy  name,  young  man  ? 

Orlando.  Orlando,  my  liege  ;  the  youngest  son  of  Sir  Rowland  de 
Bois. 

Duke  Frederick.  I  would  thou  hadst  been  son  to  some  one  else. 
.  .  .  But  fare  thee  well ;  thou  art  a  gallant  youth.  I  would  thou  hadst 
told  me  of  another  father. 

The  injustice  of  the  hard,  vindictive  Duke,  who  will  not 
reward  the  son  of  his  old  enemy,  dashes  Orlando's  hopes  of 
an  opening  to  court  favor  to  the  ground.  Perhaps  it  had 
already  gone  hard  with  him  to  make  up  his  mind  to  seek  ser- 
vice with  his  father's  enemy ;  now  he  asserts  his  pride  in  that 
dead  father,  and  awakens  a  deeper  thrill  of  sympathy  in  the 
heart  of  Rosalind.  But  it  is  Celia  who  —  having  no  self- 
consciousness  to  hold  her  back,  and  a  self-imposed  mission 


As  You  Like  It.  243 

to  pour  balm  into  the  wounds  made  by  her  father  —  is 
foremost  to  comfort  him. 

Lady  Martin  says  of  this  passage  in  the  play,  "  It  is  one  of 
the  most  difficult  scenes  for  an  actress  to  act.  Rosalind 
says  so  little,  but  so  much  is  implied."  The  gentle  kindness 
of  the  Princesses,  but  above  all  the  love  at  first  sight  which 
springs  up  between  Orlando  and  Rosalind,  completely  be- 
wilder the  young  man.  He  stands  stupefied;  he  can  say 
no  word.  First,  Celia  urges  her  cousin,  (who  is  also  under 
the  bewildering  consciousness  of  a  new  sensation)  to  go 
forward  and  comfort  and  encourage  the  poor  young  fellow. 
Then  Rosalind,  taking  her  gold  chain  from  her  neck,  gives 
it  to  Orlando  with  a  few  sweet,  sad  words  of  personal  sym- 
pathy. He  returns  her  no  thanks.  Rosalind  pauses,  expect- 
ing them;  then  says,  ''Shall  we  go,  cousin?"  Celia  bids 
farewell.  Orlando,  as  they  depart,  murmurs  a  few  words ; 
and  Rosalind,  loath  to  go,  fancies  he  has  recalled  them. 
In  the  confusion  of  the  moment  she  half  betrays  her 
feelings,  —  "  Sir,  you  have  overthrown  more  than  your 
enemies."  Celia  nips  this  demonstration  of  interest  in 
the  bud,  repeating  Rosalind's  own  words :  "  Will  you  go, 
cousin?" 

As  Orlando  still  stands  bewildered,  there  enters  Le  Beau 
(a  man  marred  by  his  court  life)  with  a  warning  that  he  had 
better  quit  the  court  and  danger.  Le  Beau  lets  his  true 
self  come  out  now.  He  has  laid  aside  the  affectations  he 
had  shown  when  in  company  with  the  ladies,  and  appears  a 
courteous,  kindly,  upright  gentleman. 

Orlando  takes  little  heed  of  his  own  danger,  so  anxious  is 
he  to  know  which  lady  is  the  Duke's  daughter.  "  The  tall 
one,"  says  Le  Beau,  "  is  daughter  to  the  banished  Duke  ;  the 


244  -^^  ^^^  Z^/^^  //. 

shorter  is  her  cousin."     Le  Beau  has  not  named  them,  but 
Orlando  at  once  knows  that  his  love's  name  is  Rosalind. 

Scene  3. 

Then  comes  a  scene  in  which  sensible  Celia  teases  her 
cousin  for  her  sudden  fancy.  Notice  Celia's  reproving  re- 
mark that  if  women  walk  not  in  trodden  paths  their  very 
petticoats  will  catch  the  burs. 

Celia.  Why,  cousin  ;  why,  Rosalind  !  Cupid  have  mercy !  —  Not 
a  word  ? 

Rosalind.     Not  one  to  throw  at  a  dog.  ' 

Celia.  No,  thy  words  are  too  precious  to  be  cast  away  upon  curs, 
throw  some  of  them  at  me  ;  come,  lame  me  with  reasons. 

Rosalind.  Then  there  were  two  cousins  laid  up ;  when  the  one 
should  be  lamed  with  reasons,  and  the  other  mad  without  any. 

Celia.    But  is  all  this  for  your  father  ? 

Rosalind.  No,  some  of  it  is  for  my  father's  child.  O,  how  full  of 
briers  is  this  working-day  world  ! 

Celia.  They  are  but  burs,  cousin,  thrown  upon  thee  in  holiday 
foolery  ;  if  we  walk  not  in  the  trodden  paths,  our  very  petticoats  will 
catch  them. 

Rosalind.  I  could  shake  them  off  my  coat ;  these  burs  are  in  my 
heart. 

Celia.     Hem  them  away. 

Rosalind.     I  would  try ;  if  I  could  cry  hem^  and  have  him. 

Celia.     Come,  come,  wrestle  with  thy  affections. 

Rosalind.     O,  they  take  the  part  of  a  better  wrestler  than  myself. 

Celia.  O,  a  good  wish  upon  you  !  you  will  try  in  time,  in  despite 
of  a  fall.  But,  turning  these  jests  out  of  service,  let  us  talk  in  good 
earnest :  Is  it  possible,  on  such  a  sudden,  you  should  fall  into  so 
strong  a  liking  with  old  Sir  Rowland's  youngest  son  ? 

Rosalind.     The  Duke,  my  father,  loved  his  father  dearly. 

Celia.  Doth  it  therefore  ensue  that  you  should  love  his  son  dearly  ? 
By  this  kind  of  chase,  I  should  hate  him,  for  my  father  hated  his  father 
dearly ;  yet  I  hate  not  Orlando. 

Rosalind.     No,  'faith,  hate  him  not,  for  my  sake. 

Celia.    Why  should  I  not  ?  doth  he  not  deserve  well } 


As  You  Like  It,  245 

Rosalind.     Let  me  love  him  for  that ;  and  do  you  love  him  because 
I  do.     Look,  here  comes  the  Duke. 
Celia.     With  his  eyes  full  of  anger. 

The  Duke  indeed  comes  in  with  angry  eyes,  prepared 
(under  what  sudden  prompting  we  know  not)  to  carry  out  a 
purpose  he  has  already  entertained  of  banishing  poor  Rosa- 
Hnd.  Rosalind's  mingled  reasoning  and  pleading  with  her 
uncle  is  very  beautiful.  When  he  calls  her  "a  traitor's 
daughter  "  her  patience  gives  way,  and  she  retorts  upon  him- 
self as  the  traitor ;  but  in  an  instant  changes  her  proud  tone, 
and  beseeches  him  as  her  hege.  Celia's  description  of  their 
friendship  is  very  celebrated. 

Rosalind.    Treason  is  not  inherited,  my  lord ; 
Or,  if  we  did  derive  it  from  our  friends, 
What 's  that  to  me  ?    My  father  was  no  traitor  ! 
Then,  my  good  liege,  mistake  me  not  so  much 
To  think  my  poverty  is  treacherous. 

Celia.     Dear  sovereign,  hear  me  speak. 

Duke  Frederick.     Ay,  Celia,  we  stayed  her  for  your  sake ; 
Else  had  she  with  her  father  ranged  along. 

Celia.    I  did  not  then  entreat  to  have  her  stay ; 
It  was  your  pleasure,  and  your  own  remorse. 
I  was  too  young  that  time  to  value  her ; 
But  now  I  know  her.     If  she  be  a  traitor, 
Why,  so  am  I.     We  still  have  slept  together, 
Rose  at  an  instant,  learned,  played,  eat  together,' 
And  wheresoe'er  we  went,  like  Juno's  swans. 
Still  we  went  coupled  and  inseparable. 


b 


But  Celia's  pleading  is  of  no  avail.  Rosalind  is  banished, 
and  is  not  permitted  to  delay  her  departure.  If  she  outstays 
the  time  appointed  her  the  penalty  is  death.  She  stands 
overwhelmed  with  grief,  and  Celia  is  the  counsellor  and 
comforter ;  though  as  soon  as  Rosalind  recovers  herself  she 


246  J^s  You  Like  It. 

enters  with  great  spirit  into  Celia's  plans,  and  is  ready  with 
her  own  practical  suggestions. 

Celia.     O  my  poor  Rosalind !  whither  wilt  thou  go  ? 
Wilt  thou  change  fathers  ?     I  will  give  thee  mine. 
I  charge  thee,  be  not  thou  more  grieved  than  I  am. 

Rosalind.     I  have  more  cause. 

Celia.  Thou  hast  not,  cousin ; 

Prithee,  be  cheerful ;  know'st  thou  not  the  Duke 
Hath  banished  me,  his  daughter  ? 

Rosalind.  That  he  hath  not. 

Celia.     No  .''  hath  not  ?  Rosalind  lacks  then  the  love 
Which  teacheth  thee  that  thou  and  I  am  one. 
Shall  we  be  sundered  }  shall  we  part,  sweet  girl  "i 
No  ;  let  my  father  seek  another  heir. 
Therefore  devise  with  me  how  we  may  fly ; 
Whither  to  go,  and  what  to  bear  with  us. 
And  do  not  seek  to  take  your  change  upon  you, 
To  bear  your  griefs  yourself,  and  leave  me  out ; 
For,  by  this  heaven,  now  at  our  sorrows  pale, 
Say  what  thou  canst,  I  '11  go  along  with  thee. 

Rosalind.     Why,  whither  shall  we  go  ? 

Celia.  To  seek  my  uncle. 

Rosalind.     Alas,  what  danger  will  it  be  to  us. 
Maids  as  we  are,  to  travel  forth  so  far  I 
Beauty  provoketh  thieves  sooner  than  gold. 

Celia.     I  '11  put  myself  in  poor  and  mean  attire, 
And  with  a  kind  of  umber  smirch  my  face  ; 
The  like  do  you ;  so  shall  we  pass  along, 
And  never  stir  assailants. 

Rosalind.  Were  it  not  better, 

Because  that  I  am  more  than  common  tall, 
That  I  did  suit  me  all  points  like  a  man  ? 
A  gallant  curtle-axe  upon  my  thigh, 
A  boar-spear  in  my  hand  ;  and  (in  my  heart 
Lie  there  what  hidden  woman's  fear  there  will) 
We  '11  have  a  swashing  and  a  martial  outside ; 
As  many  other  mannish  cowards  have, 
That  do  outface  it  with  their  semblances. 

Celia.     What  shall  I  call  thee,  when  thou  art  a  man  ? 


As  You  Like  It,  247 

Rosalind.     I  '11  have  no  worse  a  name  than  Jove's  own  page  ; 
And  therefore  look  you  call  me  Ganymede. 
But  what  will  you  be  called  ? 

Celia.     Something  that  hath  a  reference  to  my  state  ; 
No  longer  Celia,  but  Aliena. 

Rosalind.     But,  cousin,  what  if  we  essayed  to  steal 
The  clownish  fool  out  of  your  father's  court  ? 
Would  he  not  be  a  comfort  to  our  travel  ? 

Celia.     He  '11  go  along  o'er  the  wide  world  with  me  ; 
Leave  me  alone  to  woo  him.     Let 's  away, 
And  get  our  jewels  and  our  wealth  together  ; 
Devise  the  fittest  time,  and  safest  way 
To  hide  us  from  pursuit  that  will  be  made 
After  my  flight.     Now  go  we,  in  content, 
To  liberty,  and  not  to  banishment. 

Act  II.     Scene  i. 

The  first  scene  of  this  act  is  in  the  forest  of  Arden.  No 
doubt  the  name  of  Arden  endeared  itself  to  Shakspeare, 
being  the  maiden  name  of  his  own  mother.  It  was  also  a 
place  already  known  to  poets  and  other  wanderers  in  Fairy- 
land, for  in  Ardennes,  not  far  from  Charlemagne's  camp, 
occurred  many  notable  adventures  of  the  Paladins.  There 
is  also  an  actual  Forest  of  Ardennes  in  the  eastern  part  of 
France  ;  but  the  one  in  question  has  no  geographical  position. 
In  this  scene  we  see  the  banished  Duke,  a  jovial  gentleman, 
who  probably  was  not  ill  content  to  exchange  his  dukedom 
for  the  greenwood.  One  of  his  company  is  a  lord,  once  a 
man  of  dissipated  and  irregular  habits,  now  called  by  his 
companions  '*  the  melancholy  Jaques."  Jaques  has  been  a 
puzzle  to  commentators.  Victor  Hugo  contrasts  him  with 
Touchstone  (called  in  the  French  translation  Pierre  la 
Touche),  —  the  one  a  pessimist,  the  other  an  optimist  by 
nature.     Maginn  has  written  a  celebrated  paper  on  him.     I 


248  As  You  Like  It, 

think  myself  that  he  is  the  sketch  of  one  whom  Shakspeare 
must  have  deeply  studied  and  often  seen ;  a  man  who  by  sen- 
sual excesses  has  not  only  marred  his  life,  but  weakened  the 
spring  of  all  enjoyment  in  him.  A  man  of  that  kind  never 
can  know  the  frame  of  mind  described  by  Archbishop  Trench 
when  he  says  :  — 

"  Wiser  it  were  to  welcome  and  make  ours 

Whate'er  of  good,  though  small,  the  present  brings,  — 

Kind  welcomes,  sunshine,  song  of  birds,  and  flowers. 
With  a  child's  pure  delight  in  little  things ; 

And  of  the  griefs  unborn  to  rest  secure, 

Knowing  that  mercy  ever  will  endure." 

As  Coleridge  when  enervated  by  opium  speaks  of  his  own 
feelings  with  respect  to  the  beauties  of  nature,  — 

"  I  see  them  all,  so  excellently  fair 
I  see,  not  feel,  how  beautiful  they  are,"  — 

so  Jaques,  with  apparently  no  great,  sharp  misery  of  his 
own  to  trouble  him,  lies  under  the  pleasant  shade  of  the 
oaks,  and  moralizes,  with  the  wounded  stag  for  his  text,  on 
the  greed,  selfishness,  and  unkindness  of  other  people.  You 
may  observe  that,  as  to  greed,  Jaques,  in  spite  of  sentimental 
sobbings,  went  to  the  dinner-tent  and  dined  on  venison,  and 
was  by  no  means  well  pleased  to  have  real  want  break  in 
upon  his  dinner.  Observe  too,  that  the  passage  descriptive 
of  the  wounded  stag,  and  all  expressions  of  real  pity  for  him 
come  from  the  mouth  of  the  nameless  lord,  not  that  of 
Jaques.  Jaques  is  the  confirmed  sentimentalist.  It  is  hard  to 
rouse  him  to  action.  With  him  all  strength  of  will  and  all 
the  motive  power  of  enthusiasm  have  passed  away.  There 
is  nothing  real  whatever  in  his  melancholy ;  it  is  simply  dis- 


As  You  Like  It,  249 

content  born  of  satiety.     Here  is  the  account  of  him,  begin- 
ning with  part  of  Rosalind's  father's  speech. 

Sweet  are  the  uses  of  adversity, 

Which  like  the  toad,  ugly  and  venomous, 

Wears  yet  a  precious  jewel  in  his  head. 

And  this  our  life,  exempt  from  public  haunt, 

Finds  tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks, 

Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  everything. 

Amiens.     I  would  not  change  it.    Happy  is  your  grace, 
That  can  translate  the  stubbornness  of  fortune 
Into  so  quiet  and  so  sweet  a  style. 

Duke.     Come,  shall  we  go  and  kill  us  venison  ? 
And  yet  it  irks  me,  the  poor  dappled  fools  — 
Being  native  burghers  of  this  desert  city  — 
Should,  in  their  own  confines,  with  forked  heads 
Have  their  round  haunches  gored. 

I  Lord.  Indeed,  my  lord. 

The  melancholy  Jaques  grieves  at  that ; 
And,  in  that  kind,  swears  you  do  more  usurp 
Than  doth  your  brother  that  hath  banished  you. 
To-day,  my  lord  of  Amiens  and  myself 
Did  steal  behind  him,  as  he  lay  along 
Under  an  oak,  whose  antique  root  peeps  out 
Upon  the  brook  that  brawls  along  this  wood ; 
To  the  which  place  a  poor  sequestered  stag, 
That  from  the  hunters'  aim  had  ta'en  a  hurt. 
Did  come  to  languish  ;  and,  indeed,  my  lord, 
The  wretched  animal  heaved  forth  such  groans. 
That  their  discharge  did  stretch  his  leathern  coat 
Almost  to  bursting ;  and  the  big  round  tears 
Coursed  one  another  down  his  innocent  nose 
In  piteous  chase.     And  thus  the  hairy  fool. 
Much  marked  of  the  melancholy  Jaques, 
Stood  on  the  extremest  verge  of  the  swift  brook, 
Augmenting  it  with  tears. 

Duke.  But  what  said  Jaques  ? 

Did  he  not  moralize  this  spectacle  ? 

I  Lord.    O  yes,  into  a  thousand  similes. 
First,  for  his  weeping  in  the  needless  stream  ; 


250  As  You  Like  It, 

"  Poor  deer,"  quoth  he,  "  thou  mak'st  a  testament 

As  worldlings  do,  giving  thy  sum  of  more 

To  that  which  had  too  much."    Then,  being  alone, 

Left  and  abandoned  of  his  velvet  friends, 

"  'T  is  right,"  quoth  he  ;  "  thus  misery  doth  part 

The  flux  of  company."     Anon  a  careless  herd, 

Full  of  the  pasture,  jumps  along  by  him, 

And  never  stays  to  greet  him.     "  Ay,"  quoth  Jaques, 

"  Sweep  on,  you  fat  and  greasy  citizens  ! 

'T  is  just  the  fashion.     Wherefore  do  you  look 

Upon  that  poor  and  broken  bankrupt  there  ?  " 

Thus,  most  invectively,  he  pierceth  through 

The  body  of  the  country,  city,  court. 

Yea,  and  of  this  our  life  ;  swearing  that  we 

Are  mere  usurpers,  tyrants,  and  what 's  worse  — 

To  fright  the  animals  and  to  kill  them  up 

In  their  assigned  and  native  dwelling-place. 

Duke.     And  did  you  leave  him  in  this  contemplation  ? 

2  Lord.    We  did,  my  lord,  weeping,  and  commenting 
Upon  the  sobbing  deer. 

Coleridge  is  said  to  have  remarked  in  connection  with  this 
lord's  account  of  Jaques,  as  he  lay  watching  the  hurt  deer, 
that  "  Shakspeare  never  gives  any  description  of  rustic 
scenery  merely  for  its  own  sake,  or  to  show  how  he  can 
paint  natural  objects ;  but  while  he  now  and  then  displays 
marvellous  accuracy  and  minuteness  of  knowledge,  he  usually 
only  touches  upon  the  larger  features  and  broader  character- 
istics, leaving  the  fiUings-up  to  the  imagination.  Thus,  in  this 
passage,  he  describes  an  oak  of  many  centuries  in  a  single 
line,  — 

Under  an  oak  whose  antique  root  peeps  out. 

Other,  and  inferior  writers,  would  have  dwelt  on  this  de- 
scription, and  worked  it  out  with  pettiness  and  impertinence  of 
detail.  In  Shakspeare  the  '  antique  root '  furnishes  the  whole 
picture." 


As  You  Like  It.  251 

Scene  2. 

Meantime  the  flight  of  Celia,  Touchstone,  and  Rosalind 
is  discovered.  Some  evil-minded  courtier  (who  may  have 
observed  something  in  the  looks  of  the  young  people,  each 
attracted  by  the  other)  suggests  that  Orlando  may  be  of 
the  party.  The  Duke  in  a  fury  sends  for  the  elder  brother, 
Oliver. 

Scene  3. 

We  know  well  that  Orlando  has  had  no  understanding 
with  the  ladies,  and  in  this  scene  we  see  him  back  again  in 
his  brother's  house,  and  in  company  with  the  good  old  Adam. 
Is  it  possible  that  Adam  may  here  slander  Oliver  ?  One  can 
more  readily  believe  that  the  old  man  was  misled  by  his  fears 
than  that  such  diabolical  intentions  could  be  harbored  by 
the  man  who  was  the  destined  husband  of  sweet  Celia. 

Orlando,  with  his  small  experience  of  life,  needs  some  one 
to  strike  out  a  plan  for  him.  Adam  springs  to  the  rescue, 
offering  his  master's  disinherited  son  his  little  treasure. 

How  far  back  must  we  go  to  reach  the  days  of  ideal 
domestic  service  ?  Orlando  speaks  of  "  old  time  "  servants 
in  the  regretful  tone  we  hear  around  us.  Adam  is  hardly 
coherent  at  first  in  his  anger  and  his  anguish,  so  that  Orlando 
finds  it  hard  to  make  out  what  is  the  matter. 

Adam.  O,  my  gentle  master ! 

O,  my  sweet  master  !     O,  you  memory 
Of  old  Sir  Rowland  !     Why  I  — what  make  you  here  ? 
Why  are  you  virtuous  ?     Why  do  people  love  you  ? 
And  wherefore  are  you  gentle,  strong,  and  valiant  ? 
Why  would  you  be  so  fond  to  overcome 
The  bony  prizer  of  th'  ill-tempered  Duke  ? 
Your  praise  is  come  too  swiftly  home  before  you : 


252  As  You  Like  IL 

O,  what  a  world  is  this,  when  what  is  comely 
Envenoms  him  that  bears  it ! 

Orlando.     Why,  what 's  the  matter  ? 

Adam.  O  unhappy  youth, 

Come  not  within  these  doors.     Within  this  roof 
The  enemy  of  all  your  graces  lives. 
Your  brother  —  no  I  no  brother  —  yet  the  son  — 
Yet  not  the  son  —  I  will  not  call  him  son 
Of  him  I  was  about  to  call  his  father  — 
Hath  heard  your  praises ;  and  this  night  he  means 
To  burn  the  lodging  where  you  use  to  lie, 
And  you  within  it :  if  he  fail  of  that, 
He  will  have  other  means  to  cut  you  oflf. 
I  overheard  him,  and  his  practices. 
This  is  no  place,  this  house  is  but  a  butchery  ; 
Abhor  it,  fear  it,  do  not  enter  it. 

Orlando.     Why,  whither,  Adam,  would'st  thou  have  me  go  ? 

Adam.     No  matter  whither,  so  you  come  not  here. 

Orlando.     What,  would'st  thou  have  me  go  and  beg  my  food  ? 
Or,  with  a  base  and  boisterous  sword,  enforce 
A  thievish  living  on  the  common  road  ? 
This  I  must  do,  or  know  not  what  to  do : 
Yet  this  I  will  not  do,  do  how  I  can ; 
I  rather  will  subject  me  to  the  malice 
Of  a  diverted  blood,  and  bloody  brother. 

Adam.    But  do  not  so :  I  have  five  hundred  crowns, 
The  thrifty  hire  I  saved  under  your  father. 
Which  I  did  store,  to  be  my  foster-nurse. 
When  service  should  in  my  old  limbs  lie  lame, 
And  unregarded  age  in  corners  thrown; 
Take  that :  and  He  that  doth  the  ravens  feed, 
Yea,  providently  caters  for  the  sparrow, 
Be  comfort  to  my  age !     Here  is  the  gold  ; 
All  this  I  give  you  ;  let  me  be  your  servant. 
Though  I  look  old,  yet  I  am  strong  and  lusty ; 
For  in  my  youth  I  never  did  apply 
Hot  and  rebellious  liquors  in  my  blood  ; 
Nor  did  not  with  unbashful  forehead  woo 
The  means  of  weakness  and  debility  ; 
Therefore  my  age  is  as  a  lusty  winter. 


As  Yoti  Like  It,  253 


Frosty,  but  kindly.     Let  me  go  with  you  j 
I  '11  do  the  service  of  a  younger  man 
In  all  your  business  and  necessities. 

Orlando.     O  good  old  man  ;  how  well  in  thee  appears 
The  constant  service  of  the  antique  world, 
When  service  sweat  for  duty,  not  for  meed! 
Thou  art  not  for  the  fashion  of  these  times, 
Where  none  will  sweat  but  for  promotion ; 
And  having  that,  do  choke  their  service  up 
Even  with  the  having :  it  is  not  so  with  thee. 
But,  poor  .old  man,  thou  prun'st  a  rotten  tree, 
That  cannot  so  much  as  a  blossom  yield. 
In  lieu  of  all  thy  pains  and  husbandry. 
But  come  thy  ways,  we  '11  go  along  together ; 
And  ere  we  have  thy  youthful  wages  spent. 
We  '11  light  upon  some  settled  low  content. 

Adam.     Master,  go  on ;  and  I  will  follow  thee, 
To  the  last  gasp,  with  truth  and  loyalty. 
From  seventeen  years  till  now  almost  fourscore 
Here  lived  I,  but  I  now  live  here  no  more. 
At  seventeen  years  many  their  fortunes  seek ; 
But  at  fourscore,  it  is  too  late  a  week  ; 
Yet  fortune  cannot  recompense  me  better. 
Than  to  die  well,  and  not  my  master's  debtor. 

Notice  the  contrast  between  Jaques  and  Adam  in  one 
passage  of  this  scene,  —  Adam  all  action,  Jaques  all  profit- 
less musing ;  Adam  generous,  Jaques  self-absorbed ;  Adam's 
winter  of  life  "frosty  but  kindly,"  Jaques  enervated  and 
cynical. 

Scene  4. 

Now  at  last  we  are  in  the  heart  of  the  Forest  of  Arden ; 
the  very  forest  where  another  Orlando,  and  Rinaldo  and  Angel- 
ica drank  of  the  enchanted  fountains.  Rosalind  is  in  boy's 
clothes ;  Celia  a  pretty  shepherdess,  too  weary  to  speak ;  and 
Touchstone,  grumbling,  is  still  clothed  in  motley. 


254  ^^  ^ou  Like  It. 

Rosalind.    O  Jupiter,  how  weary  are  my  spirits ! 

Touchstone.     I  care  not  for  my  spirits,  if  my  legs  were  not  weary. 

Rosalind.  I  could  find  in  my  heart  to  disgrace  my  man's  apparel, 
and  to  cry  like  a  woman ;  but  I  must  comfort  the  weaker  vessel,  as 
doublet  and  hose  ought  to  show  itself  courageous  to  petticoat ;  there- 
fore, courage,  good  Aliena. 

Celia.     I  pray  you,  bear  with  me ;  I  can  go  no  further. 

Touchstone.  For  my  part,  I  had  rather  bear  with  you  than  bear 
you  ;  yet  I  should  bear  no  cross  if  I  did  bear  you,  for  I  think  you 
have  no  money  in  your  purse. 

Rosalind.     Well,  this  is  the  Forest  of  Arden. 

Touchstone.     Ay,  now  am  I  in  Arden,  the  more  fool  I. 
When  I  was  at  home  I  was  in  a  better  place ; 
But  travellers  must  be  content. 

Rosalind.  Ay,  be  it  so,  good  Touchstone.  Look  you,  who  comes 
here .?    A  young  man,  and  an  old,  in  solemn  talk. 

The  men  approaching  are  two  shepherds,  —  Corin,  and 
a  love-sick  young  fellow,  Silvius  by  name,  who  is  in  love 
with  pretty  Phoebe.  Extravagant  as  Silvius'  love  complaints 
are,  they  move  the  heart  of  Rosalind  with  a  fellow-feeling. 
Though  weary,  she  is  not  too  weary  to  discuss  love  with  Touch- 
stone, who  gives  her  some  hints  out  of  his  own  experience. 

Rosalind.    Alas !  poor  shepherd,  searching  of  thy  wound, 
I  have  by  hard  adventure  found  mine  own. 

Touchstone.  And  I  mine.  I  remember  when  I  was  in  love  I  broke 
my  sword  upon  a  stone,  and  bade  him  take  that  for  coming  to  see  Jane 
Smile;  and  I  remember  the  kissing  of  her  washing-bat,  and  the  cows* 
teats  that  her  pretty  chapped  hands  had  milked ;  and  I  remember  the 
wooing  of  a  peascod  of  her ;  from  whom  I  took  two  cods,  and  giving 
her  them  again,  said  with  weeping  tears,  "  Wear  these  for  my  sake." 
We,  that  are  true  lovers,  run  into  strange  capers ;  but  as  all  is  mortal 
in  nature,  so  is  all  nature  in  love  mortal  in  folly. 

Rosalind.     Thou  speak'st  wiser  than  thou  art  'ware  of. 

Touchstone.  Nay,  I  shall  ne'er  be  'ware  of  mine  own  wit  till  I 
break  my  shins  against  it. 

Rosalind  \sings\.    Jove  1  Jove  !  this  shepherd's  passion 
Is  much  upon  my  fashion. 


j4s  You  Like  It. 


255 


Touchstone.    And  mine ;  but  it  grows  something  stale  with  me. 

Celia.     I  pray  you,  one  of  you  question  yond  man, 
If  he  for  gold  will  give  us  any  food ; 
I  faint  almost  to  death. 

Rosalind  checks  Touchstone  for  the  rough  way  in  which, 
at  Ceha's  request,  he  calls  after  the  shepherds,  and  she 
courteously  entreats  them,  for  the  sake  of  the  young  girl 
with  her,  to  show  them  some  spot  where  they  may  rest. 

Corin  tells  them  of  a  cottage  they  can  purchase  not  far 
off,  and  the  cousins,  with  the  liberality  of  girlhood  and  high 
station,  proceed  to  buy  the  property  off-hand. 

Scene  5. 

We  here  see  Jaques  himself,  persuading  Amiens  to  sing. 
There  was  no  opera  in  England  at  that  period,  and  Shaks- 
peare's  comedies  are  always  provided  with  songs,  to  be  sung 
by  the  musical  members  of  his  dramatic  company. 

Song. 

Amiens.     Under  the  greenwood  tree, 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 
And  tune  his  merry  note 
Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither, 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy. 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

Who  doth  ambition  shun. 
And  loves  to  live  i'  the  sun, 
Seeking  the  food  he  eats. 
And  pleased  with  what  he  gets, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither ; 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy. 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 


256  As  You  Like  It. 

/agues.    I  '11  give  you  a  verse  to  this  note,  that  I  made  yesterday  in 
despite  of  my  invention. 
Amiens.    And  I  '11  sing  it. 
Jaques.    Thus  it  goes  :  — 

If  it  do  come  to  pass, 
That  any  man  turn  ass, 
Leaving  his  wealth  and  ease, 
A  stubborn  will  to  please, 
Ducdame,  ducdame,  ducdame ; 
Here  shall  he  see, 
Gross  fools  as  he. 
An  if  he  will  come  to  Ami. 

Amiens.     What 's  that  ducdhme  ? 

Jaques.   'T  is  a  Greek  invocation,  to  call  fools  into  a  circle.     I  '11  go 
sleep  if  I  can  ;  if  I  cannot,  I  '11  rail  against  all  the  first-born  of  Egypt. 
Amiens.    And  I  '11  go  seek  the  Duke ;  his  banquet  is  prepared. 

[Exeunt  severally. 

"  Ducdame,"  which  Jaques  tries  to  pass  off  as  a  Greek 
invocation,  is  doubtless  a  parody  on  "  Come  hither,  come 
hither,  come  hither,"  in  the  song ;  and  may  possibly  be  an 
early  version  of  Mrs.  Brown's  well-known  "  invocation  "  of 
her  ducks  :  "  Dilly,  dilly,  dilly,  come  and  be  killed  !  "  which 
they  decline  to  respond  to. 

Jaques  inveighs  heartily  against  the  folly  of  quitting  good 
homes  for  the  greenwood ;  and  yet  in  the  end,  with  charac- 
teristic inconsistency,  he  elects  to  make  his  abode  in  the 
greenwood  rather  than  go  home.  The  pressing  required  by 
Amiens  is  delightful  mockery  of  a  universal  affectation. 

Scene  6. 

In  this  scene  we  have  Adam,  the  good  retainer,  fainting 
for  weariness  and  lack  of  nourishment.  *'  Oh  !  blessed  was 
that  man,"  cries  Coleridge,  "who,  when  Shakspeare  acted 
Adam,  bore  Shakspeare  on  his  back  !  " 


As  Vou  Like  It,  257 

Adam.  Dear  master,  I  can  go  no  further.  O  !  I  die  for  food. 
Here  lie  I  down  and  measure  out  my  grave.     Farewell,  kind  master ! 

Orlando.  Why,  how  now,  Adam }  no  greater  heart  in  thee  1  Live 
a  little  ;  comfort  a  little  ;  cheer  thyself  a  little  ;  if  this  uncouth  forest 
yield  anything  savage  I  will  either  be  food  for  it,  or  bring  it  for  food  to 
thee.  For  my  sake  be  comfortable  ;  hold  death  a  while  at  the  arm's  end ; 
I  will  be  here  with  thee  presently,  and  if  I  bring  thee  not  something 
to  eat,  I  '11  give  thee  leave  to  die ;  but  if  thou  diest  before  I  come, 
thou  art  a  mocker  of  my  labor.  Well  said;  thou  lookest  cheerly,  and 
I  '11  be  with  thee  quickly.  Yet  thou  liest  in  the  bleak  air ;  come  I 
I  will  bear  thee  to  some  shelter ;  and  thou  shalt  not  die  for  want  of 
a  dinner  if  there  live  anything  in  this  desert.     Cheerly,  good  Adam. 

How  much  our  appreciation  of  things  around  us  is  influ- 
enced by  our  personal  circumstances  !  The  beautiful  forest 
of  Arden,  to  us  the  very  ideal  of  bosky  loveliness,  is  to 
Orlando  "this  uncouth  forest,"  this  "desert  place,"  as  he 
looks  around,  and  can  see  no  rehef  for  his  beloved  Adam. 

Scene  7. 

In  the  court  of  the  banished  Duke  Jaques  appears  to  have 
been  "the  animated  No!" — the  "tuneful  discord,"  the 
comic  grumbler.  It  seems  he  had  met  Touchstone  in  the 
wood,  and  has  something  to  tell  about  him  as  they  sit  down 
to  dinner.  I  think  Touchstone  had  previously  fallen  in  with 
Jaques,  possibly  in  the  days  when  Jaques  was  a  courtier,  and 
that  he  had  also  overheard  him  when  he  soliloquized  that 
morning  about  the  stag.  He  seems  to  have  given  him  a 
sort  of  parody  of  himself. 

Jaques.     A  fool,  a  fool !  —  I  met  a  fool  i'  the  forest, 
A  motley  fool ;  a  miserable  world !  — 
As  I  do  live  by  food,  I  met  a  fool  ; 
Who  laid  him  down  and  basked  him  in  the  sun. 
And  railed  on  lady  Fortune  in  good  terms, 
In  good  set  terms,  —  and  yet  a  motley  fool. 
17 


258  As  You  Like  It, 

"  Good-morrow,  fool,"  quoth  I.     "  No,  sir,"  quoth  he, 
"  Call  me  not  fool,  till  heaven  hath  sent  me  fortune." 
And  then  he  drew  a  dial  from  his  poke ; 
And  looking  on  it  with  lack-lustre  eye. 
Says,  very  wisely,  "  It  is  ten  o'clock. 
Thus  may  we  see,"  quoth  he,  "  how  the  world  wags. 
'T  is  but  an  hour  ago  since  it  was  nine ; 
And  after  an  hour  more  't  will  be  eleven  ; 
And  so,  from  hour  to  hour,  we  ripe,  and  ripe, 
And  then,  from  hour  to  hour,  we  rot,  and  rot, 
And  thereby  hangs  a  tale."     When  I  did  hear 
The  motley  fool  thus  moral  on  the  time, 
My  lungs  began  to  crow  like  chanticleer. 
That  fools  should  be  so  deep-contemplative  ; 
And  I  did  laugh,  sans  intermission. 
An  hour  by  his  dial.     O,  noble  fool ! 
A  worthy  fool  !     Motley's  the  only  wear. 
Duke.     What  fool  is  this  ? 

Jaques  goes  on  describing  fools,  and  wishing  he  wore 
motley,  till  the  Duke  says,  "  Well !  you  shall  have  a  coat." 
"  Then,"  cries  Jaques,  — 

I  will  through  and  through 
Cleanse  the  foul  body  of  the  infected  world, 
If  they  will  patiently  receive  my  medicine. 

Duke.     Fie  on  thee !     I  '11  tell  thee  what  thou  would'st  do. 

Jaques.     What  would  I  do  but  good? 

Duke.     Most  mischievous  foul  sin,  in  chiding  sin. 
For  thou  thyself  hast  been  a  libertine. 
As  sensual  as  the  brutish  sting  itself. 
And  all  the  embossed  sores,  and  headed  evils 
That  thou  with  license  of  free  foot  hast  caught 
Would'st  thou  disgorge  into  the  general  world. 

It  seems  to  me  this  passage,  containing  the  views  of  the 
grand  master  of  fiction,  might  well  be  considered  by  those 
who,  mistaking  the  legitimate  purposes  of  poetry  or  the 
novel,  '•  nose,"  as  Ruskin  says,  "  round  the  world's  garbage 


As  You  Like  It,  259 

heaps/'  and   excuse   themselves   for   their  revelations  by  a 
professed  purpose  of  improving  the  world. 

As  the  talk  goes  on,  Orlando  with  drawn  sword  rushes  in 
upon  the  banquet.  Here  is  genuine  want,  mental  agony, 
stark  misery,  in  contrast  to  Jaques  and  his  sentimentality. 

Orlando.     Forbear,  and  eat  no  more  ! 

Jaques.  Why,  I  have  eat  none  yet. 

Orlando.     Nor  shalt  not,  till  necessity  be  served. 

Jaques.     Of  what  kind  should  this  cock  come  of? 

Duke.     Art  thou  emboldened,  man,  by  thy  distress, 
Or  else  a  rude  despiser  of  good  manners, 
That  in  civility  thou  seem'st  so  empty  ? 

Orlando.     You  touched  my  vein  at  first.     The  thorny  point 
Of  bare  distress  hath  ta'en  from  me  the  show 
Of  smooth  civility.     Yet  I  am  well  brought  up, 
And  know  some  manners.     But  forbear,  I  say. 
He  dies  that  touches  any  of  this  food 
Till  I  and  my  affairs  are  answered. 

Duke.     What  would  you  have  ?     Your  gentleness  shall  force, 
More  than  your  force  move  us  to  gentleness. 

Orlando.     I  almost  die  for  food,  and  let  me  have  it. 

Duke.     Sit  down  and  feed  ;  and  welcome  to  our  table. 

Orlando.     Speak  you  so  gently  .-*     Pardon  me,  I  pray  you. 
I  thought  that  all  things  had  been  savage  here ; 
And  therefore  put  I  on  the  countenance 
Of  stern  commandment.     But  whate'er  you  are, 
That  in  this  desert  inaccessible, 
Under  the  shade  of  melancholy  boughs. 
Lose  and  neglect  the  creeping  hours  of  time, — 
If  ever  you  have  looked  on  better  days ; 
If  ever  been  where  bells  have  knolled  to  church ; 
If  ever  sat  at  any  good  man's  feast ; 
If  ever  from  your  eye-lids  wiped  a  tear, 
And  know  what 't  is  to  pity,  and  be  pitied  ; 
Let  gentleness  my  strong  enforcement  be. 
In  the  which  hope,  I  blush,  and  hide  my  sword. 

Duke.    True  is  it  that  we  have  seen  better  days ; 
And  have  with  holy  bell  been  knolled  to  church  ; 


26o  As  You  Like  It, 


And  sat  at  good  men's  feasts  ;  and  wiped  our  eyes 
Of  drops  that  sacred  pity  hath  engendered  ; 
And  therefore  sit  you  down  in  gentleness, 
And  take  upon  command  what  help  we  have, 
That  to  your  wanting  may  be  ministered. 

Orlando.     Then  but  forbear  your  food  a  little  while. 
Whiles,  like  a  doe,  I  go  to  find  my  fawn, 
And  give  it  food.     There  is  an  old- poor  man, 
Who  after  me  hath  many  a  weary  step 
Limped  in  pure  love ;  till  he  be  first  sufficed,  — 
Oppressed  with  two  weak  evils,  age  and  hunger,  — 
I  will  not  touch  a  bit. 

Duke.  Go  find  him  out. 

And  we  will  nothing  waste  till  you  return. 

Orlando.    I  thank  ye ;  and  be  blessed  for  your  good  comfort ! 

\Exit. 

Jaques  is  for  a  moment  put  out  of  countenance,  but  soon 
recovering  himself,  answers  the  Duke's  remark,  —  that  the 
world  is  like  a  theatre,  that  presents  more  woeful  pageants  than 
the  one  they  are  themselves  playing,  —  by  his  celebrated  re- 
flection that  "  all  the  world 's  a  stage,  and  all  the  men  and 
women  merely  players." 

All  the  world 's  a  stage, 
And  all  the  men  and  women  merely  players. 
They  have  their  exits,  and  their  entrances  ; 
And  one  man  in  his  time  plays  many  parts, 
His  acts  being  seven  ages.     At  first,  the  infant. 
Mewling  and  puking  in  the  nurse's  arms. 
And  then,  the  whining  schoolboy,  with  his  satchel 
And  shining  morning  face,  creeping  like  snail. 
Unwillingly,  to  school.     And  then,  the  lover ; 
Sighing  like  furnace,  with  a  woful  ballad 
Made  to  his  mistress'  eye-brow.     Then,  a  soldier ; 
Full  of  strange  oaths,  and  bearded  like  the  pard, 
Jealous  in  honor,  sudden  and  quick  in  quarrel, 
Seeking  the  bubble  reputation 

Even  in  the  cannon's  mouth.     And  then,  the  justice  \ 
In  fair  round  belly,  with  good  capon  lined, 


As  You  Like  IL  261 

With  eyes  severe,  and  beard  of  formal  cut, 
Full  of  wise  saws  and  modern  instances ; 
And  so  he  plays  his  part.     The  sixth  age  shifts 
Into  the  lean  and  slippered  pantaloon  ; 
With  spectacles  on  nose,  and  pouch  on  side; 
His  youthful  hose,  well  saved,  a  world  too  wide 
For  his  shrunk  shank ;  and  his  big,  manly  voice, 
Turning  again  toward  childish  treble,  pipes 
And  whistles  in  his  sound.     Last  scene  of  all, 
That  ends  this  strange  eventful  history. 
Is  second  childishness,  and  mere  oblivion  ; 
Sans  teeth,  sans  eyes,  sans  taste,  sans  everything. 

Maginn  says  of  this  passage  that  the  evils  it  complains  of 
are  all  common-place,  and  all  perfectly  consistent  with  man's 
happiness.  It  would  be  cruelty  to  keep  the  boy  from  knowl- 
edge ;  the  lover  is  not  unhappy  penning  his  foolish  poetry ; 
the  soldier  loves  the  battle  and  the  war-shout,  and  (whatever 
Jaques  himself  might  do)  considers  reputation  well  purchased 
by  the  danger ;  the  justice  is  complaisant  and  comfortable ; 
the  lean  old  man  in  his  loose  hose  and  slippers  has  those 
about  him  who  take  charge  of  his  wants,  and  smooth  his  path 
out  of  the  world ;  and  if  old  age  comes  on  with  loss  of  teeth, 
eye-sight,  and  vigor,  friends  are  at  least  thankful  that  the 
veteran  has  lived  so  long.  There  is  nothing  to  move  to 
melancholy  in  Jaques'  picture  nearly  so  much  as  the  thought 
that  there  are  Adams  who  die  uncared  for,  and  Orlandos 
whom  suffering  drives,  despite  their  better  nature,  into  crime 
and  violence. 

When  Adam   and   Orlando  have  been  welcomed  to  the 

sylvan   dining-table,  the   Duke,  with   the   politeness   of  an 

Homeric  chief,  forbears  to  question  them  until  their  wants 

^are   satisfied,  but  turning  to  Amiens  requests  a  song  from 

him.    That  song  is  music  itself  in  words.     Orlando,  when  he 


262  As  You  Like  It. 

tells  his  story,  is  welcomed  by  the  banished  Duke  as  good 
Sir  Rowland's  son,  and  his  fortunes  are  assured.  Here  is 
Amiens'  song :  — 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind, 
Thou  art  not  so  unkind 

As  man's  ingratitude ; 
Thy  touch  is  not  so  keen, 
Because  thou  art  not  seen, 

Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 
Heigh  ho  !  Sing  heigh  ho,  unto  the  green  holly. 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere  folly. 

Then  heigh  ho,  the  holly  ! 

This  life  is  most  jolly. 

Here,  I  presume,  he  lifts  his  glass. 

Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky  ; 
Thou  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 

As  benefits  forgot ; 
Though  thou  the  waters  warp, 
Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharp 

As  friend  remembered  not. 
Heigh  ho !  Sing  heigh  ho,  unto  the  green  holly. 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere  folly. 

Then  heigh  ho,  the  holly ! 

This  life  is  most  jolly  1 

Act  in.     Scene  i. 

When  anything  degrading  or  disagreeable  is  to  be  done 
in  this  play  it  takes  place  under  a  roof.  Here  Duke  Fred- 
erick, in  a  room  of  his  palace,  is  at  high  words  with  Oli- 
ver about  his  absconding  brother.  Oliver's  excuse  that 
he  has  never  loved  the  lad  incites  the  Duke  to  more  vio- 
lence, and  the  urmatural  kinsman  is  stripped  of  all  his  *■ 
property. 


As  You  Like  It.  263 


Scene  2. 

In  the  forest  of  Arden  we  see  Orlando  hanging  verses  about 
Rosalind  (whom  he  imagines  safe  and  happy  in  her  uncle's 
palace)  upon  all  the  green  boughs.  I  think  Shakspeare 
must  have  had  in  his  mind  Medoro's  verses,  found  by  that 
other  Orlando,  in  which  he  celebrated  "  the  fairest  of  her 
sex,  Angelica."  Then  come  in  old  Corin  and  Touchstone. 
The  latter  is  amusing  himself  by  puzzling  and  bewildering 
the  old  shepherd,  who,  from  a  practical  point  of  view,  has, 
on  the  subject  they  are  discussing  (the  relative  advantages  of 
court  and  country  life),  the  best  of  the  argument. 

Then  Rosahnd,  dressed  as  Ganymede,  the  brother  of  the 
shepherdess  Aliena,  wanders  by,  reading  a  paper  of  verses 
she  has  found  in  praise  of  "Rosalind."  The  privileged  fool 
looks  over  her  shoulder  as  she  reads,  and  parodies  the  verses. 
I  think  she  hardly  dares  believe  that  these  precious  praises 
could  have  been  addressed  to  herself.  Then  enters  Celia 
(Aliena) ,  reading  verses,  also  to  Rosalind,  that  she  has  found. 
The  lines  that  have  been  picked  up  by  Celia  contain  the 
lover's  description  of  the  person  of  his  Rosalind. 

Rosalind.     Peace ! 
Here  comes  my  sister,  reading ;  stand  aside. 

Celia  [reads].     Why  should  this  desert  silent  be  ? 

For  it  is  unpeopled  ?    No  ; 
Tongues  I  '11  hang  on  every  tree, 

That  shall  civil  sayings  show. 
Some,  how  brief  the  life  of  man 

Runs  his  erring  pilgrimage  ; 
That  the  stretching  of  a  span 

Buckles  in  his  sum  of  age. 
Some,  of  violated  vows 

'Twixt  the  souls  of  friend  and  friend ; 


264  ^s  You  Like  It. 

But  upon  the  fairest  boughs, 

Or  at  every  sentence'  end, 
Will  I  Rosalinda  write  ; 

Teaching  all  that  read  to  know 
The  quintessence  of  every  sprite 

Heaven  would  in  little  show. 
Therefore  heaven  nature  charged 

That  one  body  should  be  filled 
With  all  graces  wide  enlarged. 

Nature  presently  distilled 
Helen's  cheek,  but  not  her  heart ; 

Cleopatra's  majesty ; 
Atalanta's  better  part ; 

Sad  Lucretia's  modesty. 
Thus  Rosalind  of  many  parts 

By  heavenly  synod  was  devised  ; 
Of  many  faces,  eyes,  and  hearts, 

To  have  the  touches  dearest  prized. 
Heaven  would  that  she  these  gifts  should  have, 
And  I  to  live  and  die  her  slave. 

"Atalanta's  better  part,"  I  suppose,  hints  at  the  perfection 
of  form  that  that  lady  displayed  in  her  running. 

Celia,  always  anxious  to  keep  up  appearances,  sends  Corin 
and  Touchstone  to  a  little  distance  while  she  discourses 
about  the  hnes  to  Rosalind.  At  first  Rosalind  conceals  her 
pleasure  in  the  verses  by  her  merriment,  saying :  "  I  was 
never  so  berhymed  since  Pythagoras'  time,  when  I  was  an 
Irish  rat."  In  old  times,  in  Ireland,  it  was  believed  that  rats 
could  be  charmed  out  of  their  haunts  by  rhymed  spells. 

Then  begins  one  of  the  prettiest  scenes  in  the  whole  play. 
One  wonders  how  Shakspeare  could  have  so  perfectly  under- 
stood girls  in  their  relations  to  each  other.  Celia  is  teasing 
Rosalind ;  Rosalind  is  frantic  with  impatience,  yet  knows  that 
the  more  she  shows  it  the  longer  the  provoking  Celia  will 
keep   her  waiting.     She  says  of  herself,  "Dost  thou  think 


As  You  Like  It,  265 

I  have  doublet  and  hose  in  my  disposition  ?  "  No,  truly ; 
among  all  Shakspeare's  creations  no  girl  perhaps  is  so  "  pure 
womanly  "  as  Rosalind  ;  and  when  she  really  has  the  certainty 
that  Orlando  is  at  hand,  and  (joy  of  joys  !)  knows  too  that 
Orlando  loves  her,  how  woman-true  is  her  first  thought : 
"  Alas,  the  day  !  —  what  shall  I  do  with  my  doublet  and 
hose  ?  "  Then  her  rush  of  questions  to  her  cousin,  and  her 
coaxing  !  her  desire  to  slink  away  among  the  trees,  in  her 
strange  dress,  when  she  sees  her  lover  approaching  her  with 
Jaques  —  all  is  so  true  to  woman's  nature  ! 

Jaques  and  Orlando  are  in  high  dispute ;  but,  as  usual 
with  Jaques,  the  sentiments  expressed  are  only  sham  ones. 
Rosalind,  hiding  in  her  bower  of  green  leaves,  has  the  rapture 
of  hearing  her  lover  own  his  attachment  to  herself,  in  pretty, 
touching  words.  Jaques  says,  ''  So  Rosalind  is  your  love's 
name?"  "Yes,  most  truly,"  answers  Orlando.  "I  do  not 
like  her  name,"  says  the  man  of  melancholy.  "There  was 
no  thought  of  pleasing  you  when  she  was  christened,"  is  the 
answer.  Then  Jaques,  half  suspecting  that  the  lady  in  ques- 
tion may  be  Princess  Rosalind,  who  was  extraordinarily  tall, 
asks,  "  What  stature  is  she  of  ?  "  and  is  answered,  "  Just  as 
high  as  my  heart." 

Having  learned,  to  her  triumph  and  satisfaction,  that  Orlan- 
do's love  for  her  is  fully  as  great  as  hers  for  him,  Rosalind, 
while  further  talk  goes  on  between  the  two  men,  makes  up 
her  mind.  She  is  sure  of  her  ground  now.  She  will  treat 
herself  to  being  wooed,  even  in  her  doublet  and  hose.  With- 
out saying  a  word  to  Celia,  who  would  have  raised  objections, 
she  comes  forward  suddenly,  exaggerating  her  manliness. 
What  woman  who  has  ever  loved  does  not  envy  her  this 
chance  of  hearing,  in  the  character  of  confidant,  what  her 


266  As  You  Like  It. 

lover  feels  for  her  ?  Lady  Martin  says :  Only  Shakspeare 
could  have  brought  such  a  girl  "  into  a  position  where  she 
could,  without  revealing  her  own  secret,  probe  the  heart  of 
her  lover."  Sweet  Rosalind,  —  like  sunshine  playing  on 
green  leaves  ! 

She  breaks  in  on  Orlando  before  Celia  can  stop  her,  with 
an  "Hallo!" — and,  "Do  you  hear  me,  forester?"  She 
comes  to  talk  of  love,  and  she  chooses  the  first  opportunity  of 
introducing  the  subject.  She  brings  it  in,  indeed,  "  neck  and 
heels."     But  Orlando  at  first  will  not  respond  to  the  cue. 

Rosalind.  I  will  speak  to  him  like  a  saucy  lackey,  and  under  that 
habit  play  the  knave  with  him.  —  Do  yon  hear,  forester  ? 

Orlando.     Very  well  ;  what  would  you  ? 

Rosalind.     I  pray  you,  what  is  't  o'  clock  ? 

Orlando.  You  should  ask  me,  what  time  o'  day  ;  there  's  no  clock 
in  the  forest. 

Rosalind.  Then  there  is  no  true  lover  in  the  forest ;  else  sighing 
every  minute,  and  groaning  every  hour,  would  detect  the  lazy  foot  of 
time  as  well  as  a  clock. 

Orlando.  And  why  not  the  swift  foot  of  time  t  had  not  that  been 
as  proper  ? 

Rosalind.  By  no  means,  sir ;  Time  travels  in  divers  paces  with 
divers  persons :  I  'II  tell  you  who  Time  ambles  withal,  who  Time  trots 
withal,  who  Time  gallops  withal,  and  who  he  stands  still  withal. 

Much  amused  by  this  unexpected  encounter  of  a  gay  wit 
in  such  a  lad,  Orlando  proceeds  to  question  him,  and  learns 
that  Time  trots  with  a  young  maid  before  her  marriage,  ambles 
with  a  lazy  priest,  gallops  with  a  thief,  and  stands  still  with  a 
lawyer  in  his  vacation. 

Orlando.     Where  dwell  you,  pretty  youth  ? 

Rosalind.  With  this  shepherdess,  my  sister,  here  in  the  skirts  of 
the  forest,  like  fringe  upon  a  petticoat. 

Orlando.     Are  you  a  native  of  this  place  ? 

Rosalind.    As  the  coney,  which  you  see  dwell  where  it  lies  hidden. 


i 


As  You  Like  It.  267 

Orlando.  Your  accent  is  something  finer  than  you  could  purchase 
in  so  remote  a  dwelling. 

Rosalind.  I  have  been  told  so  of  many  ;  but  indeed,  an  old  religious 
uncle  of  mine  taught  me  to  speak.  He  was  one  that  knew  courtship 
well,  for  in  his  youth  he  fell  in  love.  I  have  heard  him  read  many 
lectures  against  it ;  and  I  thank  God,  I  am  not  a  woman  tQ  be  touched 
with  so  many  giddy  offences  as  he  hath  generally  taxed  their  whole 
sex  withal. 

Orlando.  Can  you  remember  any  of  the  principal  evils  that  he  laid 
to  the  charge  of  women  .? 

Rosalind.  There  were  none  principal ;  they  were  all  like  one 
another  as  ha'pence  are,  —  every  one  fault  seeming  monstrous  till  his 
fellow-fault  came  to  match  it. 

Orlafido.     I  prithee,  recount  some  of  them. 

Rosalind.  No,  I  will  not  cast  away  my  physic,  but  on  those  that 
are  sick.  There  is  a  man  haunts  the  forest  that  abuses  our  young 
plants  with  carving  "  Rosalind  "  on  their  barks  ;  hangs  odes  upon  haw- 
thorns, and  elegies  on  brambles ;  all,  forsooth  deifying  the  name  of 
Rosalind.  If  I  could  meet  that  fancy-monger  I  would  give  him 
some  good  counsel,  for  he  seems  to  have  the  quartan  fever  of  love 
on  him. 

Orlando.  I  am  he  that  is  so  love-shaked ;  I  pray  you,  tell  me  your 
remedy. 

Rosalind.  There  is  none  of  my  uncle's  marks  upon  you  ;  he  taught 
me  how  to  know  a  man  in  love  ;  in  which  cage  of  rushes,  I  am  sure, 
you  are  not  prisoner. 

Orlando.     What  were  his  marks  ? 

Rosalind.  A  lean  cheek,  which  you  have  not ;  a  blue  eye,  and 
sunken,  which  you  have  not ;  an  unquestionable  spirit,  which  you  have 
not;  a  beard  neglected,  which  you  have  not,  —  but  I  pardon  you  for 
that;  for,  simply,  your  having  in  beard  is  a  younger  brother's  revenue. 
Then  your  hose  should  be  ungartered,  your  bonnet  unbanded,  your 
sleeve  unbuttoned,  your  shoe  untied,  and  everything  about  you  demon- 
strating a  careless  desolation.  But  you  are  no  such  man ;  you  are 
rather  point-device  in  your  accoutrements ;  as  loving  yourself,  than 
seeming  the  lover  of  any  other. 

Orlando.     Fair  youth,  I  would  I  could  make  thee  believe  I  love. 

Rosalind.  Me  believe  it  ?  you  may  as  soon  make  her  that  you  love 
believe  it ;  which,  I  warrant,  she  is  apter  to  do  than  to  confess  she 
does ;  that  is  one  of  the  points  in  the  which  women  still  give  the  lie 


268  As  You  Like  It. 

to  their  consciences.  But,  in  good  sooth,  are  you  he  that  hangs  the 
verses  on  the  tree,  wherein  Rosalind  is  so  admired  ? 

Orlando.  I  swear  to  thee,  youth,  by  the  white  hand  of  Rosalind, 
I  am  that  he,  —  that  unfortunate  he. 

Rosalind.     But  are  you  so  much  in  love  as  your  rhymes  speak  ? 

Orlando.     Neither  rhyme  nor  reason  can  express  how  much. 

Rosalind.  Love  is  merely  a  madness ;  and,  I  tell  you,  deserves  as 
well  a  dark  house  and  a  whip  as  madmen  do ;  and  the  reason  why 
they  are  not  so  punished  and  cured  is,  that  the  lunacy  is  so  ordinary 
that  the  whippers  are  in  love  too ;  yet  I  profess  curing  it  by  counsel. 

Orlando.     Did  you  ever  cure  any  so  .'' 

Rosalind.  Yes,  one  ;  and  in  this  manner  :  He  was  to  imagine  me 
his  love,  his  mistress  ;  and  I  set  him  every  day  to  woo  me  :  at  which 
time  would  I,  being  but  a  moonish  youth,  grieve,  be  effeminate,  change- 
able, longing,  and  liking  ;  proud,  fantastical,  apish,  shallow,  incon- 
stant, full  of  tears,  full  of  smiles  ;  for  every  passion  something,  and 
for  no  passion  truly  anything,  —  as  boys  and  women  are  for  the  most 
part  cattle  of  this  color ;  would  now  like  him,  now  loathe  him  ;  then 
entertain  him,  then  forswear  him ;  now  weep  for  him,  then  spit  at 
him  ;  that  I  drave  my  suitor  from  his  mad  humor  of  love,  to  a  living 
humor  of  madness  ;  which  was,  to  forswear  the  full  stream  of  the 
world,  and  to  live  in  a  nook  merely  monastic.  And  thus  I  cured 
him. 

Orlando.     I  would  not  be  cured,  youth. 

Rosalind.  I  would  cure  you,  if  you  would  but  call  me  Rosalind, 
and  come  every  day  to  my  cote,  and  woo  me. 

Orlando.  Now,  by  the  faith  of  my  love,  I  will  ;  tell  me  where 
it  is. 

Rosalind.  Go  with  me  to  it,  and  I  '11  show  it  you ;  and  by  the 
way  you  shall  tell  me  where  in  the  forest  you  live ;  will  you  go  ? 

Orlando.     With  all  my  heart,  good  youth. 

Rosalind.  Nay,  you  must  call  me  Rosalind.  Come,  sister,  will 
you  go  ?  \Exeunt. 

Think  what  inimitable  acting  this  scene  must  require. 
Above  all  things,  Rosalind's  high  breeding  and  ladylikeness 
must  be  kept  up  throughout.  Indeed,  she  thinks  it  necessary 
to  invent  a  httle  fiction  about  the  "  old  religious  uncle  "  to 
account  for  the  superiority  she  cannot  repress,  in  connection 


As  You  Like  It.  269 

with  her  surroundings.  How,  when  the  subject  of  Orlando's 
love  is  started  at  last,  she  teases  and  makes  fun  of  him  !  She 
mocks  at  his  clothes,  his  looks,  his  verses,  his  sentiments ; 
but  she  makes  him  repeat  over  and  over  again  the  precious 
truth  that  he  loves  Rosalind  !  During  all  their  talk,  Celia, 
with  as  bright  a  wit  as  Rosalind's,  abstains  from  saying  a  word. 
Perhaps  she  keeps  the  more  readily  in  the  background  lest 
Orlando,  seeing  her  in  woman's  dress,  should  recognize  her 
as  one  of  the  princesses.  But  Orlando  knows  nothing  of  the 
banishment  of  Rosahnd,  or  of  the  flight  of  Celia,  so  never  for 
a  moment  suspects  the  true  character  of  these  unusual  shep- 
herds.    Besides,  he  has  had  so  little  experience  of  the  world  ! 

Scene  3. 

The  next  scene  is  very  amusing,  but  we  must  deny  our- 
selves any  extracts  from  it.  Touchstone,  in  his  idleness 
(for  he  seems  to  do  very  little  work  for  his  young  ladies),  has 
taken  to  courting  a  buxom  shepherd-girl,  Audrey.  She  is 
not  comely,  she  is  simply  a  good,  devoted  peasant  girl,  who 
admires  Touchstone  with  all  her  simple  heart,  —  loves  him 
open-mouthed  as  it  were,  —  and  trots  after  him  with  a  stolid 
obedience  that  probably  has  its  attraction  to  the  fool,  accus- 
tomed to  be  ordered  round  by  his  superiors,  and  flouted  by 
women.  She  does  not  understand  one  word  in  ten  he  says 
to  her ;  but  she  feels  it  to  be  great  promotion  to  marry  him. 
Touchstone  has  proposed*  to  her,  and  they  are  to  meet  in 
this  sylvan  spot  the  worthless  vicar  of  a  neighboring  parish, 
who  will  marry  them  without  bans,  license,  church-register, 
or  witnesses,  under  a  hedge.  Such  a  marriage,  unless  within 
the  precincts  of  the  Fleet  Prison,  was  not  legal  in  England. 
Up   to  forty  years   ago,  all  marriages,  whether  of  church- 


270  As   Vou  Like  It. 

people  or  dissenters,  had  to  be  solemnized  in  the  parish 
church.  Poor  Audrey,  I  think,  is  wholly  unaware  of  the  trick 
that  is  being  played  on  her  \  she  places  implicit  trust  in  the 
lover  who  is  entirely  above  her  comprehension,  and  she 
might  have  come  to  grief,  but  that  Jaques,  lying  under  a  tree 
hard  by,  Jiears  what  is  going  on,  and  his  better  nature,  as  a 
man  and  a  gentleman,  brings  him  to  the  rescue.  He  steps 
forth  and  without  addressing  himself  to  Audrey,  flatters 
Touchstone  by.  telling  him  he  never  should  have  expected  a 
man  of  his  breeding  would  wish  to  be  married  under  a  bush, 
like  a  beggar. 

Jaques.  And  will  you,  being  a  man  of  your  breeding,  be  married 
under  a  bush,  like  a  beggar  ?  Get  you  to  church,  and  have  a  good 
priest  that  can  tell  you  what  marriage  is;  this  fellow  will  but  join  you 
together  as  they  join  wainscot ;  then  one  of  you  will  prove  a  shrunk 
panel,  and,  like  green  timber,  warp,  warp. 

Audrey  is  simply  passive,  but  Touchstone,  having  the  grace 
to  be  a  little  ashamed  of  himself,  disappoints  the  ribald  vicar 
of  his  marriage-fee. 

This  sudden  appearance  of  Jaques  in  the  character  of  the 
protector  of  rustic  innocence,  may  remind  us  of  some  of 
Bret  Harte's  damaged  heroes,  especially  Oakhurst,  in  that 
touching  story,  "  The  Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat."  I  have  always 
held  that  there  are  two  kinds  of  natures,  the  one  utterly 
selfish,  which  has  in  it  no  divine  sparks  that  may  be  kindled 
into  better  things.  The  owner  of  ^such  a  nature  may  live  all 
his  days  a  highly  respectable  life,  but  never  will  be  capable 
of  generosity,  heroism,  or  even  true  appreciation  of  them. 
The  other  nature  may  have  gone  as  far  astray  as  the  prodi- 
gal's, and  yet  have  in  it  the  unextinguished  spark,  which  may 
be  blown  into  a  flame. 


As  Vou  Like  It.  271 

Scene  4. 
We  see  Rosalind  in  trouble.  Orlando,  detained  by  some 
duty  in  the  Duke's  service,  has  failed  to  keep  his  appoint- 
ment. Any  one  who  has  had  experience  in  consoling  lover- 
girl  or  lover-man  under  such  circumstances  will  appreciate 
this  scene,  with  its  utter  unreasonableness  on  the  part  of  the 
one  cousin,  and  the  patience  of  the  other,  driven  to  repeat 
and  re-repeat  her  arguments,  together  with  the  craving  of  the 
one  bereft  to  have  the  confidant  praise  and  not  blame  the 
object  beloved.  Rosalind  seems  to  have  had  small  personal 
knowledge  of  her  banished  father,  and  shows  no  great  anxiety 
to  join  his  court.  Probably  this  free,  untrammelled  green- 
wood life  was  dehghtful  to  her ;  possibly  she  had  misgivings 
as  to  his  reception  of  Celia. 

Rosalind.     Never  talk  to  me ;  I  will  weep. 

Celia.  Do,  I  prithee ;  but  yet  have  the  grace  to  consider  that 
tears  do  not  become  a  man, 

Rosalind.     But  have  I  not  cause  to  weep .? 

Celia.     As  good  cause  as  one  would  desire  ;  therefore  weep. 
•  Rosalind.     His  very  hair  is  of  the  dissembling  color. 

Celia.  Something  browner  than  Judas's :  marry,  his  kisses  are 
Judas's  own  children. 

Rosalind.     V  faith,  his  hair  is  of  a  good  color. 

Celia.  An  excellent  CQlor ;  your  chestnut  was  ever  the  only 
color. 

Rosalind.  And  his  kissing  is  as  full  of  sanctity  as  the  touch  of  holy 
bread. 

Celia.  He  hath  bought  a  pair  of  cast  lips  of  Diana  :  a  nun  of  win- 
ter's sisterhood  kisses  not  more  religiously  ;  the  very  ice  of  chastity  is 
in  them. 

Rosalind.  But  why  did  he  swear  he  would  come  this  morning,  and 
comes  not  ? 

Celia.     Nay,  certainly,  there  is  no  truth  in  him. 

Rosalind.     Do  you  think  so  ? 

Celia.    Yes ;  I  think  he  is  not  a  pick-purse,  nor  a  horse-stealer  j 


272  As  You  Like  It. 

but  for  his  verity  in  love,  I  do  think  him  as  concave  as  a  covered  goblet, 
or  a  worm-eaten  nut. 

Rosalind.     Not  true  in  love  ? 

Celia.     Yes,  when  he  is  in  ;  but  I  think  he  is  not  in. 

Rosalind.     You  have  heard  him  swear  downright  he  was. 

Celia.  Was  is  not  is;  besides,  the  oath  of  a  lover  is  no  stronger 
than  the  word  of  a  tapster ;  they  are  both  the  confirmers  of  false  reck- 
onings.    He  attends  here  in  the  forest  on  the  Duke,  your  father. 

Rosalind.  1  met  the  Duke  yesterday,  and  had  much  question  with 
him.  He  asked  me  of  what  parentage  I  was ;  I  told  him  of  as  good 
as  he  ;  so  he  laughed,  and  let  me  go.  But  what  talk  we  of  fathers, 
when  there  is  such  a  man  as  Orlando  ? 

Celia.  O,  that 's  a  brave  man !  he  writes  brave  verses,  speaks 
brave  words,  swears  brave  oaths,  and  breaks  them  bravely,  quite  tra- 
verse, across  the  heart  of  his  lover ;  as  a  puny  tilter,  that  spurs  his 
horse  but  on  one  side,  and  breaks  his  staff  like  a  noble.  But  all  's 
brave  that  youth  mounts,  and  folly  guides. 

Scene  5. 

This  fifth  scene  is  part  of  the  pastoral  which  is  combined 
with  the  main  story,  and  which,  though  it  has  been  esteemed 
as  "  a  gem  inserted  in  a  golden  setting,"  and  though  Phebe 
has  some  of  the  loveliest  speeches  in  the  drama,  we  have 
too  little  space  to  be  able  to  pause  upon.  Phebe  is  a  black- 
haired  village  beauty,  immensely  conscious  of  her  own  at- 
tractions. Silvius  courts  her  with  a  sort  of  dog-like,  servile 
love,  that  is  the  very  thing  that  would  set  such  a  girl  against 
him  as  a  lover.  In  truth,  Phebe  flouts  him,  disdains  him, 
tramples  on  him ;  and  her  heartless  behavior  provokes  gen- 
erous Rosalind,  who,  overhearing  her  ill-treating  the  patient 
man,  breaks  in  with  remonstrances,  and  tells  her,  — 

Know  yourself;  down  on  your  knees, 

And  thank  heaven,  fasting,  for  a  good  man's  love. 

Phebe,  utterly  astonished  when  this  handsome  youth 
assures  her  she  is  no  beauty,  and  that  she  is  hardly  worthy 


As  You  Like  It.  273 

of  the  love  of  Silvius,  falls  at  once  in  love  with  him  who  so 
reproves  her.  All  love  in  this  play  is  love  at  first  sight,  ex- 
cept that  of  Silvius.  Maybe,  in  love,  instinct  is  as  safe  a  guide 
as  modern  methods.  Phebe  quotes  a  line  which  may  be,  as 
she  says,  an  old  proverb,  but  which  is  found  in  Marlowe  : 

"  Who  ever  loved  that  loved  not  at  first  sight  ? " 

As  soon  as  Rosalind  (the  scornful  Ganymede)  has  disappeared, 
Phebe  apparently  softens  to  Silvius,  who  had  previously  told 
her  that  when  she  knew  the  power  of  fancy  herself  she  would 
grow  more  pitiful  to  him.  She  is  a  deceitful  minx,  however, 
for  her  first  object  is  to  ascertain  where  the  youth  who 
has  been  speaking  to  her  lives.  This  is  her  description 
of  him :  — 

It  is  a  pretty  youth,  —  not  very  pretty ; 

But,  sure,  he 's  proud,  —  and  yet  his  pride  becomes  him  ; 

He  '11  make  a  proper  man.     The  best  thing  in  him 

Is  his  complexion ;  and  faster  than  his  tongue 

Did  make  offence,  his  eye  did  heal  it  up. 

He  is  not  tall,  —  yet  for  his  years  he  's  tall ; 

His  leg  is  but  so  so,  —  and  yet  't  is  well ; 

There  was  a  pretty  redness  in  his  lip  ; 

A  little  riper  and  more  lusty  red 

Than  that  mixed  in  his  cheek ;  't  was  just  the  difference 

Betwixt  the  constant  red  and  mingled  damask. 

There  be  some  women,  Silvius,  had  they  marked  him 

In  parcels  as  I  did,  would  have  gone  near 

To  fall  in  love  with  him ;  but,  for  my  part, 

I  love  him  not  nor  hate  him  not;  and  yet 

I  have  more  cause  to  hate  him  than  to  love  him. 

For  what  had  he  to  do  to  chide  at  me  .? 

Then  suddenly  she  conceives  the  idea  of  using  her  power 
over  Silvius  to  make  him  carry  to  her  new  love  a  love- 
letter. 

18 


2  74  ^^  ^^^  Lzh  It. 


Act   IV.     Scene  i. 

In  the  first  scene  of  this  act,  Jaques  is  trying  to  make 
acquaintance  with  Rosalind,  who  calls  him  to  account  for  his 
profession  of  melancholy.  As  usual,  Jaques  proceeds  to 
classify  that  quality,  though  somewhat  puzzled  to  describe 
his  own  despondency.  Rosalind,  who  is  uneasy  about 
Orlando,  is  herself  in  a  melancholy  mood.  As  they  talk, 
Orlando  comes  up  to  them,  and  a  scene  ensues,  in  which, 
says  Lady  Martin,  "  Rosalind  puts  forth  all  her  little  womanly 
waywardnesses,  playing  like  summer  lightning  on  her  own 
throbbing  tenderness  of  heart,  and  never  in  her  gayest 
sallies  or  her  happiest  moods  (for  she  is  radiantly  happy,  now 
that  Orlando  has  come  back  to  her)  losing  one  grain  of  our 
respect."  As  Jaques,  who  has  professed  to  be  a  traveller, 
departs,  how  admirable  is  the  sarcasm  she  flings  after  him : 

Rosalind.  Farewell,  monsieur  traveller.  Look,  you  lisp,  and  wear 
strange  suits  ;  disable  all  the  benefits  of  your  own  country  ;  be  out  of 
love  with  your  nativity ;  and  almost  chide  God  for  making  you  that 
countenance  you  are ;  or  I  will  scarce  think  you  have  swam  in  a 
gondola.  Why,  how  now,  Orlando !  Where  have  you  been  all  this 
while  ?  You  a  lover  ?  An  you  serve  me  such  another  trick,  never 
come  in  my  sight  more. 

Orlando.     My  fair  Rosalind,  I  come  within  an  hour  of  my  promise. 

Rosalind.  Break  an  hour's  promise  in  love  ?  He  that  will  divide 
a  minute  into  a  thousand  parts,  and  break  but  a  part  of  a  thousandth 
part  of  a  minute  in  the  affairs  of  love,  it  may  be  said  of  him,  that  Cupid 
hath  clapped  him  o'  the  shoulder,  but  I  warrant  him  heart-whole. 

Orlando.     Pardon  me,  dear  Rosalind. 

Rosalind.  Nay,  an  you  be  so  tardy,  come  no  more  in  my  sight ;  I 
had  as  lief  be  wooed  of  a  snail. 

Orlando.     Of  a  snail  ? 

Rosalind.  Ay,  of  a  snail ;  for  though  he  comes  slowly,  he  carries 
his  house  on  his  head ;  a  better  jointure,  I  think,  than  you  can  make  a 
woman.     But  come,  woo  me,  woo  me ;  for  now  I  am  in  a  holiday 


As  You  Like  It.  275 

humor,  and  like  enough  to  consent.  What  would  you  say  to  me  now 
an  I  were  your  very,  very  Rosalind  ? 

Orlando.     I  would  kiss  before  I  spoke. 

Rosalind.  How  if  the  kiss  be  denied?  But  am  I  not  your 
Rosalind  ? 

Orlando.  I  take  some  joy  to  say  you  are,  because  I  would  be  talk- 
ing of  her. 

Rosalind.     Well,  in  her  person  I  say,  I  will  not  have  you. 

Orlando.    Then  in  mine  own  person  I  die. 

Rosalind.  No,  faith,  die  by  attorney.  The  poor  world  is  almost 
six  thousand  years  old,  and  in  all  this  time  there  was  not  any  man  died 
in  his  own  person,  videlicet^  in  a  love-cause.  Troilus  had  his  brains 
clashed  out  with  a  Grecian  club  ;  yet  he  did  what  he  could  to  die  be- 
fore, and  he  is  one  of  the  patterns  of  love.  Leander,  he  would  have 
lived  many  a  fair  year  though  Hero  had  turned  nun,  had  it  not  been 
for  a  hot  midsummer  night ;  for,  good  youth,  he  went  forth  but  to  wash 
him  in  the  Hellespont,  and  being  taken  with  the  cramp  was  drowned ; 
and  the  foolish  chroniclers  of  that  age  found  it  was  —  Hero,  of  Sestos  ! 
But  these  are  all  lies ;  men  have  died  from  time  to  time,  and  worms 
have  eaten  them, —  but  not  for  love. 

Orlando.  I  would  not  have  my  right  Rosalind  of  this  mind,  for  I 
protest  her  frown  would  kill  me. 

Rosalind.  By  this  hand  it  will  not  kill  a  fly.  But  come,  now  I 
will  be  your  Rosalind  in  a  more  coming-on  disposition ;  and  ask  me 
what  you  will,  I  will  grant  it. 

The  courtship  goes  on  till  they  have  made  a  genuine  troth- 
plight,  with  Celia  as  the  witness.  Rosalind,  I  think,  is  a  little 
apprehensive  that  her  father  may  put  obstacles  in  the  way  of 
her  happiness,  and  is  not  unwilling  to  secure  herself  by  such 
a  troth-plight  as,  in  "The  Winter's  Tale,"  passed  between 
Florizel  and  Perdita.  And  then,  when  Orlando  must  leave 
her,  how  prettily,  while  pretending  to  be  Rosalind,  she 
pleads  for  his  sweet  company ;  and  begs  him  soon  to  come 
back  again. 

Orlando.     For  these  two  hours,  Rosalind,  I  will  leave  thee. 
Rosalind.    Alas,  dear  love,  I  cannot  lack  thee  two  hours. 


276  As  You  Like  It, 

Orlando.  I  must  attend  the  Duke  at  dinner ;  by  two  o'  clock  I  will 
be  with  thee  again. 

Rosalind.  Ay,  go  your  ways,  go  your  ways.  I  knew  what  you 
would  prove ;  my  friends  told  me  as  much,  and  I  thought  no  less. 
That  flattering  tongue  of  yours  won  me.  'T  is  but  one  cast  away  ;  and 
so,  come  death.     Two  o'  clock  is  your  hour  "i 

Orlando.     Ay,  sweet  Rosalind. 

Rosalind.  By  my  troth,  and  in  good  earnest,  and  so  God  mend  me, 
and  by  all  pretty  oaths  that  are  not  dangerous,  if  you  break  one  jot  of 
your  promise,  or  come  one  minute  behind  your  hour,  I  will  think  you 
the  most  pathetical  break-promise,  and  the  most  hollow  lover,  and  the 
most  unworthy  of  her  you  call  Rosalind,  that  may  be  chosen  out  of  the 
gross  band  of  the  unfaithful.  Therefore  beware  my  censure,  and  keep 
your  promise. 

Then,  Orlando  being  gone,  Celia,  pouting,  reproves  her 
cousin  for  slandering  her  own  sex  in  her  love-prate,  and 
Rosalind  (no  doubt  dancing  round  her  as  she  speaks) 
answers :  — 

O  coz,  coz,  coz,  my  pretty  little  coz,  that  thou  didst  know  how  many 
fathom  deep  I  am  in  love  !  But  it  cannot  be  sounded  ;  my  affection 
hath  an  unknown  bottom,  like  the  bay  of  Portugal.  That  blind  ras- 
cally boy,  that  son  of  Venus,  that  abuses  every  one's  eyes  because  his 
own  are  out,  let  him  be  judge  how  deep  I  am  in  love.  I  '11  tell  thee, 
Aliena,  I  cannot  be  out  of  the  sight  of  Orlando.  I  '11  go  find  a  shadow, 
and  sigh  till  he  come. 

Scene  2. 

This  scene  contains  little  more  than  a  hunting-song,  in- 
troduced probably  to  bring  out  the  voice  of  the  best  male 
singer  in  Shakspeare's  dramatic  company. 

Scene  3. 

We  now  see  Rosalind  expectant  of  Orlando.  As  she 
awaits  him  (for  the  two  hours  of  his  absence  are  at  an  end) 
Silvius  comes  up  to  her  with  Phebe's  love-letter.     Rosalind 


As  Yoti  Like  It,  277 

is  so  indignant  at  the  girl's  treachery  that  she  hands  over  the 
letter  to  Silvius  (whom  she  calls  a  "  tame  snake  "  ),  to  deal  with 
the  writer  on  account  of  it  as  he  will,  giving  him  at  the 
same  time  the  assurance  that  he  (Ganymede)  will  never 
have  Phebe,  except '  Silvius  himself  shall  entreat  that  he  shall 
give  her  his  love. 

Here  enters  Oliver,  asking  if  they  know  where  stands  "  a 
sheepcote  fenced  with  olive-trees?"  Observe  that  Oliver  is 
in  possession  of  that  secret  which  has  but  just  revealed  it- 
self to  Orlando.  He  addresses  both  the  girls  as  "  fair  ones," 
notwithstanding  Ganymede's  doublet  and  hose.  Celia 
replies ;  — 

West  of  this  place,  down  in  the  neighboring  bottom, 
The  rank  of  osiers  by  the  murmuring  stream, 
Left  on  your  right  hand,  brings  you  to  the  place. 
But  at  this  hour  the  house  doth  keep  itself; 
There  's  none  within. 

Oliver.     If  that  an  eye  may  profit  by  a  tongue, 
Then  I  should  know  you  by  description ; 
Such  garments,  and  such  years  :  "  The  boy  is  fair. 
Of  female  favor,  and  bestows  himself 
Like  a  ripe  sister  ;  but  the  woman  low, 
And  browner  than  her  brother."     Are  not  you 
The  owner  of  the  house  I  did  inquire  for  .'' 

Celia.     It  is  no  boast,  being  asked,  to  say,  we  are. 

Oliver.     Orlando  doth  commend  him  to  you  both ; 
And  to  that  youth  he  calls  his  Rosalind, 
He  sends  this  bloody  napkin  ;  are  you  he  ? 

Rosalind.    I  am  ;  what  must  we  understand  by  this  .-* 

Oliver.     Some  of  my  shame  ;  if  you  will  know  of  me 
What  man  I  am,  and  how,  and  why,  and  where 
This  handkerchief  was  stained. 

Celia.  I  pray  you,  tell  it. 

Oliver.     When  last  the  young  Orlando  parted  from  you. 
He  left  a  promise  to  return  again 
Within  an  hour  ;  and  pacing  through  the  forest, 


278  As  You  Like  It, 

Chewing  the  food  of  sweet  and  bitter  fancy, 

Lo,  what  befel !  he  threw  his  eye  aside, 

And,  mark,  what  object  did  present  itself! 

Under  an  oak,  whose  boughs  were  mossed  with  age, 

And  high  top  bald  with  dry  antiquity, 

A  wretched,  ragged  man,  o'ergrown  with  hair, 

Lay  sleeping  on  his  back :  about  his  neck 

A  green  and  gilded  snake  had  wreathed  itself, 

Who  with  her  head,  nimble  in  threats,  approached 

The  opening  of  his  mouth  ;  but  suddenly 

Seeing  Orlando,  it  unlinked  itself, 

And  with  indented  glides  did  slip  away 

Into  a  bush  ;  under  which  bush's  shade 

A  lioness,  with  udders  all  drawn  dry. 

Lay  crouching,  head  on  ground,  with  cat-like  watch 

When  that  the  sleeping  man  should  stir,  —  for  't  is 

The  royal  disposition  of  that  beast 

To  prey  on  nothing  that  doth^iteem  as  dead. 

This  seen,  Orlando  did  approach  the  man. 

And  found  it  was  his  brother,  his  elder  brother. 

Celia.     O,  I  have  heard  him  speak  of  that  same  brother 
And  he  did  render  him  the  most  unnatural 
That  lived  'mongst  men. 

Oliver.  And  well  he  might  do  so  ; 

For  well  I  know  he  was  unnatural. 

Rosalind.     But,  to  Orlando, —  did  he  leave  him  there, 
Food  to  the  sucked  and  hungry  lioness? 

Oliver.     Twice  did  he  turn  his  back,  and  purposed  so. 
But  kindness,  nobler  ever  than  revenge. 
And  nature,  stronger  than  his  just  occasion, 
Made  him  give  battle  to  the  lioness. 
Who  quickly  fell  before  him  ;  in  which  hurtling, 
From  miserable  slumber  I  awaked. 

Celia.     Are  you  his  brother  .? 

Rosalind.  Was  it  you  he  rescued  ? 

Celia.     Was 't  you  that  did  so  oft  contrive  to  kill  him  ? 

Oliver.    'T  was  I ;  but  't  is  not  I.     I  do  not  shame 
To  tell  you  what  I  was,  since  my  conversion 
So  sweetly  tastes,  being  the  thing  I  am. 

Rosalind.    But,  for  the  bloody  napkin  ?  — 


As  You  Like  It.  279 


Oliver.  By  and  by. 

When  from  the  first  to  last,  betwixt  us  two, 
Tears  our  recountments  had  most  kindly  bathed, 
As,  how  I  came  into  that  desert  place,  — 
In  brief,  he  led  me  to  the  gentle  Duke, 
Who  gave  me  fresh  array,  and  entertainment, 
Committing  me  unto  my  brother's  love  ; 
Who  led  me  instantly  unto  his  cave. 
There  stripped  himself,  and  here  upon  his  arm 
The  lioness  had  torn  some  flesh  away. 
Which  all  this  while  had  bled  ;  and  now  he  fainted, 
And  cried,  in  fainting,  upon  Rosalind. 
Brief,  I  recovered  him  ;  bound  up  his  wound  j 
And  after  some  small  space,  being  strong  at  heart, 
He  sent  me  hither,  stranger  as  I  am, 
To  tell  this  story,  that  you  might  excuse 
His  broken  promise,  and  to  give  this  napkin, 
Dyed  in  his  blood,  unto  the  shepherd  youth 
That  he  in  sport  doth  call  his  Rosalind. 

The  last  part  of  this  scene,  where  Rosahnd,  unable  to  bear 
more,  faints,  then  makes  believe  she  had  but  counterfeited, 
—  the  solicitude  of  Celia,  the  guesses  of  Oliver,  Celia's 
blunder  when  she  addresses  Ganymede  as  "  cousin,"  and 
Rosalind's  want  of  power  to  collect  her  scattered  senses  are 
all  told  to  us  in  a  few  words. 

Celia.    Why,  how  now,  Ganymede  ?  sweet  Ganymede  ! 

[Rosalind  faints. 

Oliver.     Many  will  swoon  when  they  do  look  on  blood. 

Celia.     There 's  more  in  it.     Cousin  !     Ganymede  ! 

Oliver.    Look  !  he  recovers. 

Rosalind.  I  would  I  were  at  home. 

Celia.     We  '11  lead  you  thither. 
I  pray  you,  will  you  take  him  by  the  arm  ? 

Oliver.     Be  of  good  cheer,  youth.     You  a  man  ! 
You  lack  a  man's  heart. 

Rosalind.     I  do  so  ;  I  confess  it.    Ah,  sir,  a  body  would  think  this 


28o  As  You  Like  It, 

was  well  counterfeited ;  I  pray  you  tell  your  brother  how  well  I  coun- 
terfeited.    Heigh  ho  ! 

Oliver.  This  was  not  counterfeit.  There  m  too  great  testimony  in 
your  complexion  that  it  was  a  passion  of  earnest. 

Rosalind.     Counterfeit,  I  assure  you. 

Oliver.    Well,  then,  take  a  good  heart  and  counterfeit  to  be  a  man. 

Rosalind.  So  I  do,  but  i'  faith,  I  should  have  been  a  woman  by 
right. 

Celia.  Come,  you  look  paler  and  paler ;  pray  you  draw  home- 
wards.    Good  sir,  go  with  us. 

Oliver.  That  will  I,  for  I  must  bear  answer  back  how  you  excuse 
my  brother,  Rosalind. 

Rosalind.  I  shall  devise  something  ;  but  I  pray  you  commend  my 
counterfeiting  to  him.    Will  you  go  ? 

Act  V.     Scene  i . 

Here  we  see  Audrey,  not  over-pleased  that  "  the  gentle- 
man" has  stopped  her  irregular  marriage.  This  natural 
mistrust  of  "  the  gentleman  "  seems  to  pervade  all  peasants, 
unless  we  except  the  all-confiding  race  of  Southern  negroes. 
Touchstone  grows  more  in  love  with  Audrey  as  soon  as  he 
suspects  that  he  may  have  a  rival.  The  rustic,  stolid  Wil- 
liam is  one  of  Shakspeare's  perfect  minor  characters.  Lady 
Martin  says  that  when  she  acted  Rosalind  it  was  an  especial 
pleasure  to  her  to  see  one  particular  actor  do  that  part.  We 
can  imagine  Touchstone  as  he  thunders  down  on  the  poor 
fellow,  and  frightens  him  off  the  scene ;  and  Audrey  is  also 
scared  out  of  her  wits. 

Touchstone.  We  shall  find  a  time,  Audrey ;  patience,  gentle 
Audrey. 

Audrey.  'Faith,  the  priest  was  good  enough,  for  all  the  old  gentle- 
man's saying. 

Touchstone.  A  most  wicked  Sir  Oliver,  Audrey,  a  most  vile  Mar- 
text.  But,  Audrey,  there  is  a  youth  here  in  the  forest  lays  claim  to 
you. 


As  You  Like  It.  281 


Audrey.  Ay,  I  know  who  't  is ;  he  hath  no  interest  in  me  in  the 
world  :  here  comes  the  man  you  mean. 

[Enter  William. 

Touchstone.  It  is  meat  and  drink  to  me  to  see  a  clown.  By  my 
troth,  we  that  have  good  wits  have  much  to  answer  for  :  we  shall  be 
flouting;  we  cannot  hold. 

William.     Good  even,  Audrey. 

Audrey.    God  ye  good  even,  William. 

William.     And  good  even  to  you,  sir. 

Touchstone.  Good  even,  gentle  friend.  Cover  thy  head,  cover  thy 
head  ;  nay,  prithee,  be  covered.     How  old  are  you,  friend  "i 

William.     Five  and  twenty,  sir. 

Touchstone.     A  ripe  age  ;  is  thy  name  William  ? 

William.     William,  sir. 

Touchstone.    A  fair  name.     Wast  born  i'  the  forest  here  ? 

William.    Ay,  sir,  I  thank  God. 

Touchstone.     "  Thank  God ; "  a  good  answer.     Art  rich  ? 

William.     'Faith,  sir,  so,  so. 

Touchstone.  **  So,  so  "  is  good,  very  good,  very  excellent  good ; 
and  yet  it  is  not,  it  is  but  so  so.     Art  thou  wise  ? 

William.     Ay,  sir,  I  have  a  pretty  wit. 

Touchstone.  Why,  thou  say'st  well.  I  do  now  remember  a  saying, 
"  The  fool  doth  think  he  is  wise,  but  the  wise  man  knows  himself  to 
be  a  fool."  The  heathen  philosopher,  when  he  had  a  desire  to  eat  a 
grape,  would  open  his  lips  when  he  put  it  into  his  mouth  ;  meaning 
thereby,  that  grapes  were  made  to  eat,  and  lips  to  open.  You  do 
love  this  maid  ? 

William.     I  do,  sir. 

Touchstone.     Give  me  your  hand.     Are  you  learned  ? 

William.     No,  sir. 

Touchstone.  Then  learn  this  of  me  :  To  have  is  to  have ;  for  it  is  a 
figure  in  rhetoric,  that  drink,  being  poured  out  of  a  cup  into  a  glass,  by 
filling  the  one  doth  empty  the  other.  For  all  your  writers  do  confess 
that  ipse  is  he ;  now  you  are  not  ipse,  for  I  am  he. 

William.     Which  he,  sir  ? 

Touchstone.  He,  sir,  that  must  marry  this  woman ;  therefore,  you 
clown,  abandon  —  which  in  the  vulgar  is  leave  —  the  society — which 
in  the  boorish  is  company  —  of  this  female  —  which  in  the  common  is 
woman  ;  which  together  is.  Abandon  the  society  of  this  female.  Or, 
clown,  thou  perishest,  or  to  thy  better  understanding,  diest ;  to  wit, 


282  As  You  Like  It. 

I  '11  kill  thee,  make  thee  away ;  translate  thy  life  into  death,  thy  liberty 
into  bondage.  I  will  deal  in  poison  with  thee,  in  bastinado,  or  in  steel. 
I  will  bandy  with  thee  in  faction ;  I  will  o'errun  thee  with  policy,  I 
will  kill  thee  an  hundred  and  fifty  ways.  Therefore,  tremble  and 
depart ! 

Audrey.    Do,  good  William. 

William.     God  rest  you  merry,  sir. 

Scene  2. 
Oliver  confesses  his  love  for  Celia,  at  first  sight,  to  Or- 
lando.    Here  the  brothers  have  changed  places  ;  Oliver  has 
become  penniless,  and  Orlando,  being  high  in  the  favor  of  the 
legitimate  Duke,  is  now  in  the  position  of  an  elder  brother. 

Orlando.  Is  't  possible  that  on  so  little  acquaintance  you  should 
like  her.?  that,  but  seeing,  you  should  love' her?  and,  loving,  woo.-* 
and,  wooing,  she  should  grant  ?  and  will  you  persever  to  enjoy  her  } 

Oliver.  Neither  call  the  giddiness  of  it  in  question,  the  poverty  of 
her,  the  small  acquaintance,  my  sudden  wooing,  nor  her  sudden  con- 
senting ;  but  say  with  me,  I  love  Aliena ;  say  with  her,  that  she  loves 
me ;  consent  with  both,  that  we  may  enjoy  each  other.  It  shall  be 
to  your  good ;  for  my  father's  house,  and  all  the  revenue  that  was 
old  Sir  Rowland's,  will  I  estate  upon  you,  and  here  live  and  die  a 
shepherd. 

Here  Rosalind  breaks  in  upon  the  brothers,  and  I  think 
Oliver  hints  to  her  that  he  has  guessed  her  sex ;  but  she 
stops  his  mouth  by  alluding  to  his  own  wooing. 

Rosalind  \to  Oliver\.     God  save  you,  brother. 

Oliver.     And  you,  fair  sister. 

Rosalind.  O!  my  dear  Orlando,  how  it  grieves  me  to  see  thee 
wear  thy  heart  in  a  scarf. 

Orlando.     It  is  my  arm. 

Rosalind.  I  thought  thy  heart  had  been  wounded  with  the  claws  of 
a  Hon. 

Orlando.     Wounded  it  is,  but  with  the  eyes  of  a  lady. 

Rosalind.  Did  your  brother  tell  you  how  I  counterfeited  to  swoon 
when  he  showed  me  your  handkerchief? 


As  You  Like  It.  283 

Orlando.     Ay,  and  greater  wonders  than  that. 

Rosalind.  O,  I  know  where  you  are.  Nay,  'tis  true  there  was 
never  anything  so  sudden,  but  Caesar's  thrasonical  brag  of  "  I  came, 
saw,  and  overcame."  For  your  brother  and  my  sister  no  sooner  met 
but  they  looked ;  no  sooner  looked  but  they  loved ;  no  sooner  loved 
but  they  sighed ;  no  sooner  sighed  but  they  asked  one  another  the 
reason ;  no  sooner  knew  the  reason  than  they  sought  the  remedy  ;  and 
in  these  degrees  have  they  made  a  pair  of  stairs  to  marriage. 

Orlando.  They  shall  be  married  to-morrow,  and  I  will  bid  the 
Duke  to  the  nuptial.  But  O!  how  bitter  a  thing  it  is  to  look  into 
happiness  through  another  man's  eyes  !  by  so  much  the  more  shall  I 
to-morrow  be  at  the  height  of  heart-heaviness,  by  how  much  I  shall 
think  my  brother  happy  in  having  what  he  wishes  for. 

Rosalind.  Why,  then,  to-morrow  I  cannot  serve  your  turn  for 
Rosalind  ? 

Orlando.    I  can  live  no  longer  by  thinking. 

Rosalind.  I  will  weary  you  then  no  longer  with  idle  talking  ;  for  if 
you  will  be  married  to-morrow  you  shall,  and  to  Rosalind  if  you  will. 
I  am  a  magician. 

Then  come  in  Silvius  and  Phebe ;  and  Rosalind,  in  her 
happiness,  plays  dea  ex  machina,  and  promises  marriage  and 
satisfaction  all  round. 

Scene  3. 

In  the  next  short  scene  we  see  Touchstone  promising 
Audrey  that  the  morrow  shall  be  their  wedding-day;  and 
two  pages  of  the  Duke  passing  by  at  the  moment  sing  them 
a  song.  "  Shall  we  clap  into  't  roundly,"  asks  one  of  them, 
"  without  hawking,  or  spitting,  or  saying  we  are  hoarse  ?  " 

Like  all  Shakspeare's  songs,  it  is  music  without  music, 
though  a  misprint  in  the  refrain  long  deprived  it  of  some  of 

its  melody. 

I.    . 
It  was  a  lover,Nand  his  lass, 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino, 
That  o'er  the  green  cornfield  did  pass 
In  the  spring  time,  the  pretty  ring  time,  O  ! 


284  ^s  Vou  Like  It. 

When  birds  do  sing,  hey  ding  a  ding,  ding ; 
Sweet  lovers  love  the  spring,  O ! 

II. 
Between  the  acres  of  the  rye, 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino, 
These  pretty  country  folks  would  lie, 

In  the  spring  time,  the  pretty  ring  time,  O  ! 
When  birds  do  sing,  hey  ding  a  ding,  ding ; 
Sweet  lovers  love  the  spring,  O  1 

III. 
This  carol  they  began  that  hour, 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino, 
How  that  a  life  was  but  a  flower 

In  the  spring  time,  the  pretty  ring  time,  O  ! 
When  birds  do  sing,  hey  ding  a  ding,  ding; 
Sweet  lovers  love  the  spring,  O  ! 

IV. 

And  therefore  take  the  present  time, 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino  ; 

For  love  is  crowned  with  the  prime, 

In  the  spring  time,  the  pretty  ring  time,  O ! 

When  birds  do  sing,  hey  ding  a  ding,  ding  ; 

Sweet  lovers  love  the  spring,  O ! 

Scene  4. 

The  Duke  and  his  court  assemble  for  the  marriage  of 
Oliver.  Rosalind,  having  ascertained  (we  know  not  how) 
that  if  the  Duke's  daughter  be  produced  she  shall  be  given 
in  marriage  to  Orlando  (I  think  that  Jaques,  who  has  sus- 
pected her  secret  all  along,  may  have  revealed  it  to  his 
master),  goes  aside  to  resume  her  female  raiment.  While 
this  is  doing  we  are  diverted  by  a  colloquy,  in  the  Duke's 
presence,  between  Jaques  and  Touchstone.  The  book 
alluded  to  is  "  a  very  ridiculous  treatise,  by  one  Vicentio 
Saviola,  entitled  '  Of  Humourous  and  Honourable  Quarrels ; ' 
printed  in  English  in  1594." 


As   Vou  Like  It,  285 


As  Audrey  and  Touchstone  come  forward  in  their  bridal 
finery,  Jaques  remarks  on  them  as  a  pair  of  queer  beasts  out 
of  the  ark  j  then  recognizing  Touchstone  as  the  fool  that  he 
had  met  in  the  forest,  he  greets  him  ironically  as  a  gentle- 
man and  courtier. 

Touchstone.  If  any  man  doubt  that,  let  him  put  me  to  my  purgation. 
I  have  trod  a  measure ;  I  have  flattered  a  lady  ;  I  have  been  politic  with 
my  friend,  smooth  with  mine  enemy;  I  have  undone  three  tailors;  I 
have  had  four  quarrels,  and  like  to  have  fought  one. 

Jaques.     And  how  was  that  taken  up  ? 

Touchstone.     'Faith,  we  met,  and  found  the  quarrel  was  upon  the 
seventh  cause. 
■    Jaques.     How  seventh  cause  }  —  Good  my  lord,  like  this  fellow. 

Duke.     I  like  him  very  well. 

Touchstone.  God  'ild  you,  sir  ;  I  desire  you  of  the  like.  I  press 
in  here,  sir,  amongst  the  rest  of  the  country  copulatives,  to  swear, 
and  to  forswear  ;  according  as  marriage  binds,  and  blood  breaks. 
A  poor  virgin,  sir,  an  ill-favored  thing,  sir,  but  mine  own ;  a  poor 
humor  of  mine,  sir,  to  take  that  that  no  man  else  will.  Rich  hon- 
esty dwells  like  a  miser,  sir,  in  a  poor  house ;  as  your  pearl,  in  your 
foul  oyster. 

Duke.     By  my  faith,  he  is  very  swift  and  sententious. 

Touchstone.  According  to  the  fool's  bolt,  sir,  and  such  dulcet  dis- 
eases. 

Jaques.  But,  for  the  seventh  cause,  —  how  did  you  find  the  quarrel 
on  the  seventh  cause  ? 

Touchstone.  Upon  a  lie  seven  times  removed, — bear  your  body 
more  seeming,  Audrey,  —  as  thus,  sir.  I  did  dislike  the  cut  of  a  cer- 
tain courtier's  beard  ;  he  sent  me  word  if  I  said  his  beard  was  not  cut 
well,  he  was  in  the  mind  it  was.  This  is  called  the  retort  courteous. 
If  I  sent  him  word  again  it  was  not  well  cut,  he  would  send  me  word 
he  cut  it  to  please  himself.  This  is  called  the  quip  modest.  If  again, 
it  was  not  well  cut,  he  disabled  my  judgment.  This  is  called  the  reply 
churlish.  If  again,  it  was  not  well  cut,  he  would  answer,  I  spake  not 
true.  This  is  called  the  reproof  valiant.  If  again,  it  was  not  well  cut, 
he  would  say,  I  lie.  This  is  called  the  countercheck  quarrelsome :  and 
so  to  the  lie  circumstantial,  and  the  lie  direct. 

Jaques.    And  how  oft  did  you  say  his  beard  was  not  well  cut  ? 


286  As  You  Like  It, 

Touchstone.  I  durst  go  no  further  than  the  lie  circumstantial^  nor 
he  durst  not  give  me  the  lie  direct ;  and  so  we  measured  swords  and 
parted. 

Jaques.    Can  you  nominate  in  order  now  the  degrees  of  the  lie  ? 

Touchstone.  O  sir,  we  quarrel  in  print,  by  the  book,  as  you  have 
books  for  good  manners  ;  I  will  name  you  the  degrees.  The  first,  the 
retort  courteous;  the  second,  the  quip  modest;  the  third,  the  reply 
churlish ;  the  fourth,  the  reproof  valiant  ;  the  fifth,  the  countercheck 
quarrelsome  ;  the  sixth,  the  lie  with  circumstance  ;  the  seventh,  the  lie 
direct.  All  these  you  may  avoid,  but  the  lie  direct ;  and  you  may 
avoid  that  too,  with  an  if.  I  knew  when  seven  justices  could  not  take 
up  a  quarrel ;  but  when  the  parties  were  met  themselves,  one  of  them 
thought  but  of  an  if,  as,  if  you  said  so,  then  I  said  so  ;  and  they  shook 
hands,  and  swore  brothers.  Your  if  is  the  only  peacemaker ;  much 
virtue  in  if. 

Jaques.  Is  not  this  a  rare  fellow,  my  lord  ?  he 's  as  good  at  any- 
thing, and  yet  a  fool. 

Duke,  He  uses  his  folly  like  a  stalking-horse,  and  under  the  pres- 
entation of  that,  he  shoots  his  wit. 

Then  Rosalind  and  Celia,  attended,  as  in  a  masque,  by  a 
representative  of  Hymen,  come  into  the  presence,  and  the 
four  couples  stand  up  to  be  married.  Before  the  ceremony 
can  be  performed,  however,  Jaques  de  Bois,  that  brother 
who  stood  between  Oliver  and  Orlando,  who  had  been  study- 
ing in  some  "  school "  (that  is,  college)  of  law  or  medicine,  ap- 
pears, saying  that  Duke  Frederick  has  repented  ;  has  restored 
the  dukedom  to  his  brother,  the  banished  Duke,  and  has 
gone  into  a  hermitage.  At  this  the  other  Jaques,  who  in  spite 
of  his  claims  to  melancholy  has  been  really  happy  in  the 
greenwood,  announces  his  determination  to  follow  the  fallen 
fortunes  of  Celia's  father.  In  this  "he  is  conscious  he  is 
playing  what  will  be  considered  a  disinterested  part  and  feels 
himself  exalted  in  his  own  eyes."  "  He  departs  from  the 
stage,"  says  Maginn,  "  with  the  grace  and  easy  elegance  of  a 
gentleman  in  heart  and  manners.     He  joins  his  old  antago- 


As  You  Like  IL  287 

nist,  the  late  usurping  Duke,  in  his  fallen  fortunes ;  he  had 
spurned  him  in  his  prosperity.  His  restored  friend  he  be- 
queaths to  his  former  honor,  deserved  by  his  patience  and 
his  virtue ;  he  compliments  Oliver  on  his  restoration  to  land 
and  love  and  great  allies  ;  wishes  Silvius  joy  of  his  long-sought 
and  well-earned  marriage ;  cracks  upon  Touchstone  one  of 
those  good-humored  jokes  to  which  men  of  the  world  on 
the  eve  of  marriage  must  laughingly  submit,  —  and  makes 
his  bow."  ' 

Victor  Hugo's  idea  of  the  moral  of  this  play  is  that  it 
illustrates  the  fable  of  Antaeus,  —  that  contact  with  pure  nature 
—  Mother  Earth  —  in  short,  the  greenwood  —  renovates 
and  purifies  human  nature.  Thus  he  sees  Jaques,  Touch- 
stone, and  above  all,  Oliver  made  better  by  their  sojourn  in 
Arden;  and  to  this  he  attributes  the  total  revolution  that 
apparently  takes  place  in  Oliver. 


TWELFTH    NIGHT; 

OR, 

WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


19 


TWELFTH  NIGHT;    OR,  WHAT  YOU  WILL. 

THIS  Play,  under  the  name  of  "  What  You  Will,"  was 
first  performed  on  Candlemas  Day  (Ground  Hog*s 
Day,  in  Maryland,  and  the  old  Twelfth  Night) ,  —  in  other 
words,  February  2,  1602.  Its  plot  is  taken  from  a  trivial,  in- 
delicate, commonplace  story,  "  ApoUonius  and  Silla,"  in  which 
Shakspeare  found  his  central  idea  of  the  faithful  love  of  a 
true  woman  capable  of  absolutely  forgetting  herself. 

It  is  a  play  full  of  rollicking  fun,  as  suited  its  performance 
on  Twelfth  Night.  HazHtt  says,  "  It  makes  us  laugh  at  the 
follies  of  mankind,  not  despise  them,  and  still  less  bear  any  ill 
will  to  them.  Shakspeare's  comic  genius  resembles  the  bee 
rather  in  its  power  of  extracting  sweetness  from  weeds  than 
in  leaving  a  sting  behind  it." 

The  scene  is  laid  in  Illyria,  where  reigns  a  Duke,  young, 
handsome,  musical,  tender-hearted,  and  well-nurtured,  but 
one  of  those  people  who  are  capable  of  talking  themselves 
into  a  state  of  feeling,  —  as  Romeo  talked  himself  into  what 
we  might  call  an  ungenuine  passion  for  Rosaline.  These  are 
the  loves  that  prove  curable.  They  pain  or  they  rejoice 
those  who  entertain  them,  —  while  they  last, — and  almost  all 
men  and  women  have  experienced  them;  but,  as  it  takes 
two  to  make  a  quarrel,  so  I  think  it  takes  two  to  make  a 
genuine  affection ;  or  at  least  it  requires  such  intimate  com- 


292      Twelfth  Night ;   or.   What  You   Will, 

munion  with  the  object  of  the  passion  as  Viola  had  with  the 
Duke  while  his  confidant  and  page. 

This  Duke,  Orsino,  had  conceived  a  passion  (or  senti- 
ment) of  this  nature  for  Olivia,  a  noble  lady,  very  rich,  and 
very  beautiful,  who  had  been  left  by  her  dying  father  to  the 
guardianship  of  an  only  brother.     He,  dying  soon  after,  left 
her,  like  Portia,  mistress  of  herself  and  of  her  fortune.     Her 
nearest  kinsman,  Sir  Toby  Belch,  who  ought  to  have  been 
her  protector,  is  a  dissipated  old  uncle  whom  she  suffers  to 
live  in  her  house ;  but  the  charge  of  that  house  is  committed 
\     to  Malvolio,  a  Puritan  in  character,  a  man  of  stern  integrity, 
1     unbounded  conceit,  and  narrow  understanding,  —  the  very 
I     prince  of  prigs. 

Olivia,  like  Orsino,  has  a  disposition  that  leads  her  to 
fosterl  unnatural  sentiment.  )  Her  brother  being  dead,  she 
resolves  to  seclude  herself  from  all  society,  nay,  even  from 
the  free  air  of  heaven,  for  seven  years.  We  can  feel  that 
were  the  Duke  to  succeed  in  his  suit  to  Olivia,  their  simil- 
arity in  sentimentality  would  mar  their  married  happiness. 
Each  needs  a  bolder  and  more  practical  better  half  to 
supply  what  is  lacking  in  himself  or  her. 

Act  I.     Scene  i. 

The  Duke's  reflections  upon  music,  which  open  the  play, 
as  he  sits  among  his  lords  in  an  apartment  of  his  palace,  are 
very  pretty,  though  (to  quote  himself)  they  may  be  ''  high 
fantastical." 

If  music  be  the  food  of  love,  play  on, 
Give  me  excess  of  it ;  that,  surfeiting, 
The  appetite  may  sicken,  and  so  die. 
That  strain  again,  —  it  had  a  dying  fall  ; 
O  !  it  came  o'er  my  ear  like  the  sweet  south, 


Twelfth  Night ;   or,   What  You   Will.     293 

That  breathes  upon  a  bank  of  violets, 

Stealing,  and  giving,  odor.     Enough  ;  no  more  ; 

'T  is  not  so  sweet  now  as  it  was  before. 

O  spirit  of  love,  how  quick  and  fresh  art  thou ! 

That  notwithstanding  thy  capacity 

Receiveth  as  a  sea,  nought  enters  there. 

Of  what  validity  and  pitch  soever. 

But  falls  into  abasement  and  low  price, 

Even  in  a  minute !     So  full  of  shapes  is  fancy 

That  it  alone  is  high  fantastical. 

Goethe  has  somewhere  remarked  that  Shakspeare's  meta- 
phors contain  always  the  presentation  of  a  new  idea.  The 
Duke's  speech  is  very  full  of  them. 

Scene  2. 

This  next  scene  introduces  us  to  Viola,  who,  like  Olivia, 
is  grieving  for  a  brother's  loss.  She  and  this  brother  have 
been  wrecked  at  sea;  she  has  been  saved,  while  he 
drifted  out  of  sight  upon  a  spar.  Finding  herself  in  lUyria, 
her  first  thought  is  that  she  would  like  to  seek  shelter  in  the 
household  of  Countess  Olivia.  This,  her  friend  the  captain 
assures  her,  is  impossible.  Then  at  once,  with  her  practical 
mind,  she  makes  another  plan,  —  she  will  enter  the  service  of 
the  Duke  Orsino ;  but,  as  he  is  a  bachelor,  she  will  assume 
her  twin  brother's  clothes  and  call  herself  Caesario. 

Never  was  any  woman  less  manly  than  poor  Viola.  Slie 
has  none  of  Rosalind's  sense  of  fun  in  her  disguise.  Ifer 
"  doublet  and  hose  "  are  assumed  in  trembling  and  in  sadness. 
She  knows  something  of  the  Duke,  she  has  heard  that  he 
delights  in  music,  she  thinks  that  she  might  please  him. 
Left  an  orphan,  she  has  the  habit  of  deciding  for  herself;  to 
her  there  seems  but  one  alternative,  —  a  safe  and  honorable 
shelter  must  be  found  either  in  the  Duke's  service,  or  in  the 


elCij 


294     Twelfth  Night ;   or.   What  You   Will, 

household  of  Olivia.  We  are  saddened  by  a  sense  of  her 
\  utter  loneliness  ;  but  her  determined  perseverance,  her  mas- 
tery over  her  own  wishes,  her  sweet  tenderness,  her  womanly 
fears,  invest  her  with  especial  interest.  She  is,  what  many 
.  another  woman  has  been,  weak  in  the  flesh,  but  strong  in 
spirit. 

Scene  3. 

The  characters  of  this  play  are  introduced  to  us  in  three 
disconnected  scenes.  First,  we  have  Duke  Orsino  and  his 
court ;  secondly,  we  have  the  bereaved,  lonely,  shipwrecked 
Viola ;  thirdly,  we  enter  the  palace  of  Olivia,  where  we  find 
her  disreputable  uncle,  Sir  Toby  Belch,  conversing  with  her 
lively,  under-bred  waiting-woman,  the  roguish  Maria.  Maria 
is  taking  the  drinking  kinsman  of  her  lady  to  task  for  his 
irregular  habits  ;  especially  is  she  anxious  to  hear  particulars 
of  a  foolish  knight  whom  Sir  Toby  has  brought  to  the  house 
as  a  suitor  to  her  mistress,  —  one  Sir  Andrew  Ague-cheek. 
I  think  Maria  has  some  notion  that,  though  he  is  utterly 
unsuitable  for  Countess  Olivia,  she  herself  may  capture  the 
prize.  Sir  Toby  is  getting  money  out  of  Sir  Andrew  Ague- 
cheek,  and  at  the  same  time  much  amusement.  Sir  Andrew 
is  a  "  bom  fool,"  country-bred,  greatly  abashed  by  the  court- 
life  that  he  sees  around  him,  and  not  at  all  disposed  to  be 
self-confident.  He  thinks  that,  maybe,  eating  too  much 
beef  has  been  hurtful  to  his  brains.  Sir  Toby  and  Maria 
can  wind  him  round  their  fingers,  and  when  the  play  is 
acted  it  must  be  very  funny  to  see  him  lumbering  round  the 
stage,  capering  in  a  galliard  at  the  close  of  this  scene. 

Sir  Toby.  What  a  plague  means  my  niece,  to  take  the  death  of  her 
brother  thus  ?    I  am  sure  care 's  an  enemy  to  life. 


Twelfth  Night ;   or.   What  You   Will.     295 

Maria.  By  my  troth,  Sir  Toby,  you  must  come  in  earlier  o'  nights. 
Your  cousin,  my  lady,  takes  great  exceptions  to  your  ill  hours. 

Sir  Toby.     Why,  let  her  except  before  excepted. 

Maria.  Ay,  but  you  must  confine  yourself  within  the  modest  limits 
of  order. 

Sir  Toby.  Confine  ?  I  '11  confine  myself  no  finer  than  I  am.  These 
clothes  are  good  enough  to  drink  in,  and  so  be  these  boots  too.  If 
they  are  not,  let  them  hang  themselves  in  their  own  straps. 

Maria.  That  quaffing  and  drinking  will  undo  you  ;  I  heard  my 
lady  talk  of  it  yesterday,  and  of  a  foolish  knight  you  brought  in  one 
night  here  to  be  her  wooer. 

Sir  Toby.     Who  ?     Sir  Andrew  Ague-cheek  t 

Maria.     Ay,  he. 

Sir  Toby.     He 's  as  tall  a jnan  as  any  in  Tllyrja.     ■ — 

Maria.     What  'sThat  to  the  purpose  ? 

Sir  Toby.     Why,  he  has  three  thousand  ducats  a  year. 

Maria.  Ay,  but  he  '11  have  but  one  year  in  all  these  ducats.  He  's 
a  very  fool,  and  a  prodigal. 

Sir  Toby.  Fie  !  that  you  '11  say  so  ;  he  plays  o'  the  viol  de  gamba^ 
and  speaks  three  or  four  languages,  word  for  word,  without  book,  and 
hath  all  the  good  gifts  of  nature. 

Maria.  .  .  They  add,  moreover,  he 's  drunk  nightly  in  your  company. 

Sir  Toby.  With  drinking  healths  to  my  niece  ;  I  '11  drink  to  her  as 
long  as  there 's  a  passage  in  my  throat  or  drink  in  Illyria.  .  .  .  What, 
wench  t     Castiliano  mdgo  ;  for  here  comes  Sir  Andrew  Ague-cheek. 

Sir  Andrew.     Sir  Toby  Belch  !     How  now,  Sir  Toby  Belch  ? 

Sir  Toby.     Sweet  Sir  Andrew  ! 

Sir  Andrew  [to  Maria] .     Bless  you,  fair  shrew. 

Maria.    And  you  too,  sir. 

Sir  Toby.    Accost !  Sir  Andrew,  accost ! 

Sir  Andrew. '   What 's  that  ? 

Sir  Toby.     My  niece's  chambermaid. 
•  Sir  Andrew.    Good  Mistress  Accost,  I  desire  better  acquaintance. 

Maria.     My  name  is  Mary,  sir. 

Sir  Andrew.     Good  Mistress  Mary  Accost  — 

Sir  Toby.  You  mistake,  knight ;  accost  is,  front  her,  board  her, 
woo  her,  assail  her. 

Sir  Andrezv.  By  my  troth,  I  would  not  undertake  that  in  this  com- 
pany.   Is  that  the  meaning  of  accost  ? 

Maria.    Fare  you  well,  gentlemen. 


296      Twelfth  Night;   or.   What  You   Will. 

She  stays,  however,  for  a  Kttle  more  coarse  badinage,  and 
then  departs,  leaving  Sir  Toby  laughing.     He  cries  out :  — 

0  knight,  thou  lackest  a  cup  of  canary ;  when  did  I  see  thee  so 
put  down  ? 

Sir  Andrew.  Never  in  your  life,  I  think,  unless  you  see  canary  put 
me  down.  Methinks  sometimes  I  have  no  more  wit  than  a  Christian 
or  an  ordinary  man  has.  But  I  am  a  great  eater  of  beef,  and  I  believe 
that  does  harm  to  my  wit. 

Sir  Toby,     No  question. 

Sir  Andrew.  An  I  thought  that  I  'd  forswear  it.  I  '11  ride  home 
to-morrow,  Sir  Toby. 

Sir  Toby.     Fourquoi,  my  dear  knight. 

Sir  Andrew.  What  is  potirquoi  ?  do  or  not  do  ?  I  would  I  had 
bestowed  that  time  on  the  tongues  that  I  have  in  fencing,  dancing,  and 
bear-baiting.     O,  had  I  but  followed  the  arts  ! 

Then,  more  and  more  despondent,  he  continues  :  — 

'Faith,  I  '11  home  to-morrow,  Sir  Toby  ;  your  niece  will  not  be  seen, 
or,  if  she  be,  it 's  four  to  one  she'll  none  of  me.  The  Count  Jiiraself, 
here  hard  by,  woos  her. 

Sir  Toby.  She  '11  none  o'  the  Count.  She  '11  not  match  above  her 
degree,  neither  in  estate,  years,  nor  wit.  I  have  heard  her  swear  it. 
Tut,  there 's  life  in 't,  man  ! 

Sir  Andrew.  I  '11  stay  a  month  longer.  I  am  a  fellow  o'  the 
strangest  mind  in  the  world ;  I  delight  in  masques  and  revels  some- 
times altogether. 

Sir  Toby.    Art  thou  good  at  these  kickshaws,  knight  ? 

Sir  Andrew.  As  any  man  in  Illyria,  whatsoever  he  be,  under  the 
degree  of  my  betters ;  and  yet  I  will  not  compare  with  an  old  man. 

Sir  Toby.     What  is  thine  excellence  in  a  galliard,  knight .? 

Sir  Andrew.     Faith,  I  can  cut  a  caper. 

Sir  Toby.    And  I  can  eat  the  mutton  to  't. 

Sir  Andrew.  And  I  think  I  have  the  back-trick  simply  as  strong 
as  any  man  in  Illyria.  \Dances. 

Sir  Toby.  Wherefore  are  these  things  hid?  Wherefore  have 
these  gifts  a  curtain  before  them  ?  Are  they  like  to  take  dust,  like 
Mistress   Moll's  l  picture  "i     Why  dost  thou  not  go  to  church  in  a 

1  Moll  Fith,  a  woman  noted  for  mad  pranks  in  London  in  Shakspeare's 
time. 


Twelfth  Night ;   or^   What  You   WilL     297 

galliard,  and  come  home  in  a  coranto  ?  My  very  walk  should  be  a  jig. 
What  dost  thou  mean  ?  Is  it  a  world  to  hide  virtues  in  ?  I  did  think 
by  the  excellent  constitution  of  thy  leg  it  was  formed  under  the  star  of 
a  galliard. 

Sir  Andrew,  Ay,  it  is  strong,  and  it  does  indifferent  work  in  a 
flame-colored  stock.     Shall  we  set  about  some  revels  ? 

Sir  Toby.  What  shall  we  do  else?  were  we  not  born  under 
Taurus  ? 

Sir  Andrew.     Taurus  ?  ^     That 's  sides  and  hearts. 

Sir  Toby.  No,  sir ;  it  is  legs  and  thighs.  Let  me  see  thee  caper. 
Ha  !  higher.     Ha,  ha  !  —  excellent ! 

\Sir  Andrew  goes  off  dancing^ 

The  author  in  the  "  Monthly  Packet "  says  of  Sir  Toby : 
"  He  is  no  fool  when  his  brains  are  not  muddled  by  drink- 
ing. When  he  has  control  of  his  intellect  it  is  exclusively 
directed  towards  advancing  his  own  interests,  and  chiefly  as 
regards  his  purse ;  for  he  has  evidently  run  through  all  that 
belonged  to  him,  and  is  living  partly  by  his  wits,  partly  on 
such  hospitality  as  Olivia  is  inclined  to  show  him.  He  is 
well  adapted  to  be  a  pertinacious  hanger-on  in'  a  rich  house- 
hold, for  he  possesses  all  the  necessary  effrontery  for  making 
the  most  of  his  advantages  without  giving  an  equivalent. 
It  never  enters  into  Sir  Toby's  wildest  dreams  that  he  could 
be  expected  to  be  of  any  use  to  his  orphan  niece,  left  un- 
protected j  his  only  idea  is  to  make  as  great  convenience  as 
he  can  of  her  house,  till  the  indignant  girl  orders  him  out 
of  it." 

Yet  who  can  be  angry  with  Sir  Toby  very  long  ?  He  is 
nearly  as  hard  to  disconcert  as  the  immortal  Sir  John  Falstaff 
himself.  As  to  Sir  Andrew  Ague-cheek,  Charles  Lamb,  in 
one  of  his  papers,  tells  us  of  an  actor  who  looked  the  part  to 

1  He  alludes  to  the  human  figure  in  Almanacs,  adapted  to  the  signs  of  the 
Zodiac. 


298     Twelfth  Night;   or,   What  You   Will 

perfection,  with  "  his  broad  moony  face,  and  the  occasional 
gleam  of  an  idea  stealing  over  it,  and  going  out  for  want  of 
fuel." 

"Sir  Andrew  is  distinguished  among  Shakspeare's  non- 
professional fools  by  sheer  duhiess  of  brain.  If  now  and 
then  a  faint  notion  works  into  what  he  is  pleased  to  call  his 
'  wits,*  it  is  easily  dispossessed  by  Sir  Toby,  in  whose  re- 
lentless hands  the  poor  knight  is  pitiably  helpless.  He  is 
one  of  those  men  who  need  to  be  vigorously  guarded,  from 
the  cradle  to  the  grave,  if  they  are  not  to  be  continually 
robbed ;  and  even  then  they  will  probably  find  some  way  to 
ruin  themselves  through  their  folly,  especially  if  they,  like  Sir 
Andrew,  take  to  being  drunk  every  night." 

Scene  4. 

In  this  fourth  scene  we  find  Viola,  as  the  page  Caesario, 
admitted  into  the  closest  intimacy  with  Duke  Orsino  ;  already 
the  confidant  of  his  love  affair,  and  alas  !  already  herself  in 
love  with  him.  That  she  appears  more  like  a  woman  than  a 
boy,  the  Duke  tells  us.  Her  love  is  hopeless  from  the  first. 
That  —  and  everything  that  belongs  to  her  true  self —  must 
be  sternly,  carefully  hidden  away. 

Scene  5. 

In  Olivia's  household,  where  she  lives  as  lonely  as  poor 
Viola,  there  reigns  a  good  deal  of  loose  management,  and 
would  reign  more,  but  for  Malvolio.  We  see  Maria  exchang- 
ing banter  with  the  fool  of  the  establishment,  who  rallies  her 
on  her  standing  flirtation  with  Sir  Toby.  Olivia's  seclusion 
has  made  Maria  of  undue  importance  in  the  household,  and 
she  takes  upon  herself  the  airs  of  a  mistress.     Clever,  unscru- 


Twelfth  Night ;  or,   What  You   Will.     299 

pulous,  self-seeking,  and  pleasure-loving,  she  finds  Olivia's 
house  a  dull  abode,  "  and  catches  at  anything  which  promises 
diversion."  Olivia  is  in  no  humor  to  enjoy  her  fool's  quips 
and  quiddities,  but  the  fool  stands  his  ground,  and  presently 
begins  to  awaken  her  interest.  He  proves  to  her  that  to 
mourn  that  her  brother  is  in  heaven  marks  her  for  a  fool. 
Malvolio  has  evidently  been  making  complaints  of  the  fool 
to  his  mistress ;  for  Olivia  turns  to  him  with,  — 

What  think  you  of  this  fool,  Malvolio  ?  doth  he  not  mend  ? 

Malvolio.  Yes,  and  shall  do  till  the  pangs  of  death  shake  him. 
Infirmity,  that  decays  the  wise,  doth  ever  make  the  better  fool. 

Fool.  God  send  you,  sir,  a  speedy  infirmity,  for  the  better  increasing 
your  folly !  Sir  Toby  will  be  sworn  I  am  no  fox ;  but  he  will  not  pass 
his  word  for  two-pence  that  you  are  no  fool. 

Olivia.     How  say  you  to  that,  Malvolio  ? 

Malvolio.  I  marvel  your  ladyship  takes  delight  in  such  a  barren 
rascal.  I  saw  him  put  down  the  other  day  with  an  ordinary  fool  that 
has  no  more  brain  than  a  stone.  Look  you  now,  he  is  out  of  his 
guard  already.  Unless  you  laugh  and  minister  occasion  to  him  he  is 
gagged.  I  protest  I  take  these  wise  men  that  crow  so  at  these  set 
kind  of  fools  for  no  better  than  the  fool's  zanies. 

Olivia.  Oh  !  you  are  sick  of  self-love,  Malvolio,  and  taste  with  a 
distempered  appetite.  To  be  generous,  guiltless,  and  of  free  disposi- 
tion is  to  take  those  things  for  bird-bolts  that  you  deem  cannon-bullets. 
There  is  no  slander  in  an  allowed  fool,  though  he  do  nothing  but  rail, 
nor  no  railing  in  an  honest,  discreet  man,  though  he  do  nothing  but 
reprove. 

Fool.  Now  Mercury  indue  thee  with  leasing,  for  thou  speakest 
well  of  fools ! 

Feste,  the  fool,  is  one  of  the  brightest  specimens  of  his 
class  drawn  for  us  by  Shakspeare.  A  member  of  OUvia's 
somewhat  disorderly  household,  he  passes  his  time  wandering 
backwards  and  forwards  between  her  palace  and  the  court, 
picking  up  all  possible  items  of  news  and  gossip,  and  turn- 
ing them,  as   it  were,  to   account  in  his  profession.     As 


300     Twelfth  Night ;   or.   What  You   Will. 

Olivia  is  disputing  with  her  fool,  and  administering  a  little 
good  counsel  to  Malvolio,  who  holds  the  fool  in  abhorrence, 
news  is  brought  to  her  that  a  young  gentleman  desires  to 
speak  with  her.  Hearing  that  Sir  Toby,  whom  she  knows  to 
be  probably  intoxicated,  is  parleying  with  the  gentleman,  she 
sends  Malvolio  to  say  "  engaged  "or  "  not  at  home,"  if  the 
young  man  comes  from  Duke  Orsino. 

Malvolio  having  had  no  success  in  dismissing  the  Duke's 
messenger,  so  reports  to  Olivia,  who  grows  curious  to  see  and 
hear  the  ambassador.  We  must  bear  in  mind  the  dulness, 
the  loneliness,  and  the  worry  of  the  life  led  by  Olivia.  Her 
mind  has  recovered  from  the  first  shock  of  her  brother's 
death ;  she  is  unconsciously  craving  for  new  interests,  and  is 
prepared  to  welcome  a  new  affection ;  but  the  Duke's  suit  is 
an  annoyance  and  a  weariness  to  her.  Viola,  on  the  contrary, 
who  has  been  listening  for  a  week  past  to  the  Duke's  out- 
pourings of  confidence,  and  has  been  led  by  pity  within  the 
bounds  of  love,  comes  in  with  her  heart  full  of  suppressed 
suffering.  She  is  one  of  those  women  in  whom  the  maternal 
—  that  is,  the  protecting — instinct  predominates.  Her  love 
would  lead  her  to  sacrifice  herself,  could  she  but  give  her 
Duke  his  heart's  desire.  She  has  to  stand  by,  and  see  all 
she  would  most  desire  for  herself  lavished  upon  one  indiffer- 
ent to  it.  Nor  is  the  Duke  unconscious  of  the  charms  of 
Viola.  Regarding  her  as  a  boy,  he  is  attracted  by  her  feminine 
ways,  her  sympathy,  her  solicitude  for  himself  He  makes  a 
pet  of  her  while  employing  her  in  matters  that  he  deems  of 
the  most  vital  importance,  relying  with  perfect  confidence  on 
her  devotion  and  ability. 

Olivia  \to  Malvolio].     What  kind  of  man  is  he  ? 
Malvolio.     Why,  of  man  kind. 


Twelfth  Night ;   or^   What  You   Will,     301 

Olivia.     What  manner  of  man  ? 

Malvolio.  Of  very  ill  manner ;  he  '11  speak  with  you,  will  you 
or  no. 

Olivia.     Of  what  personage  and  years  is  he  ? 

Malvolio.  Not  yet  old  enough  for  a  man,  nor  young  enough  for  a 
boy;  as  a  sqimsh  is  before  it  is  a  peascod,  or  a  codling  that  is  almost 
an  apple ;  't  is  with  him  e'en  standing  water  between  boy  and  man ; 
he  is  very  well-favored,  and  he  speaks  very  shrewishly ;  one  would 
think  his  mother's  milk  were  scarce  out  of  him. 

Olivia.     Let  him  approach  ;  call  in  my  gentlewoman. 
Give  me  my  veil ;  come,  throw  it  o'er  my  face. 
We  '11  once  more  hear  Orsino's  embassy.  {Enter  Viola. 

Viola.     The  honorable  lady  of  the  house,  which  is  she  .'' 

Olivia.     Speak  to  me  ;  I  shall  answer  for  her  ;  your  will } 

Viola.  Most  radiant,  exquisite,  and  unmatchable  beauty,  —  I  pray 
you  tell  me  if  this  be  the  lady  of  the  house,  for  I  never  saw  her. 
I  would  be  loath  to  cast  away  my  speech,  for  besides  that  it  is  excel- 
lently well  penned,  I  have  taken  great  pains  to  con  it.  Good  beauties, 
let  me  sustain  no  scorn.  I  am  very  sensitive,  even  to  the  least  sinister 
usage. 

Olivia.     Whence  came  you,  sir  ? 

Viola.  I  can  say  little  more  than  I  have  studied,  and  that  ques- 
tion 's  out  of  my  part.  Good  gentle  one,  give  me  modest  assurance  if 
you  be  the  lady  of  the  house,  that  I  may  proceed  in  my  speech. 

Olivia.     Are  you  a  comedian  } 

Viola.  No,  my  profound  heart ;  and  yet  I  swear  I  am  not  that  I 
play.     Are  you  the  lady  of  the  house  ? 

Olivia.     If  I  do  not  usurp  myself,  I  am. 

Viola.  Most  certain,  if  you  are  she,  you  do  usurp  yourself ;  for 
what  is  yours  to  bestow  is  not  yours  to  reserve. 

Olivia  declines  to  receive  the  poetical  compliment  pre- 
pared for  her ;  and,  wishing  to  abash  the  boy,  says  :  —  "I 
heard  you  were  saucy  at  my  gates,  and  allowed  your  ap- 
proach rather  to  wonder  at  you  than  to  hear  you." 

Maria,  who  does  not  like  the  page's  evident  conviction 
that  she  is  the  waiting-maid,  and  the  other  Countess  Olivia, 
breaks  in  with,  "Will  you  hoist  sail,  sir?  there  lies  your 
way." 


302     Twelfth  Night ;   or.   What  You   Will 

Viola,  who  is  just  fresh  from  a  sea-voyage,  answers  her 
back  in  nautical  terms,  and  repays  her  insolence  by  address- 
ing her  as  "good  swabber,"  —  the  swabber's  office  being  to 
act  as  housemaid  to  the  ship.  Then  Viola  proceeds  to  re- 
quest from  Olivia  a  private  interview,  and  the  discomfited 
Maria  is  sent  away. 

Viola's  first  request  is  that  she  may  see  the  face  of  Olivia. 
When  Olivia  has  unveiled  she  exclaims  :  — 


,  'T  is  beauty  truly, blent,  whose  red  and  white 
\  Nature's  own  sweet  and  cunning  hand  laid  on. 
I  Lady,  you  are  the  cruelest  she  alive 
\  If  you  will  lead  these  graces  to  the  grave, 

And  leave  the  world  no  copy. 
Olivia.  O,  sir,  I  will  not  be  so  hard-hearted ;  I  will  give  out  divers 
schedules  of  my  beauty.  It  shall  be  inventoried,  —  every  particle  and 
utensil  labelled  to  my  will :  as,  item,  two  lips,  indifferent  red ;  item, 
two  gray  eyes  with  lids  to  them ;  item,  one  neck,  one  chin,  and  so 
forth ;  were  you  sent  hither  to  praise  me  ? 

Viola.     I  see  what  you  are  ;  you  are  too  proud. 
But,  if  you  were  the  devil,  you  are  fair. 
My  lord  and  master  loves  you.     O  !  such  love 
Could  but  be  recompensed,  though  you  were  crowned 
The  nonpareil  of  beauty. 

Olivia.  How  does  he  love  me  } 

Viola.     With  adorations,  and  with  fertile  tears, 
With  groans  that  thunder  love,  with  sighs  of  fire. 

Olivia.    Your  lord  does  know  my  mind,  I  cannot  love  him ; 
Yet  I  suppose  him  virtuous,  know  him  noble. 
Of  great  estate,  of  fresh  and  stainless  youth. 
In  voices  well  divulged,  free,  learned,  valiant. 
And  in  dimension  and  the  shape  of  nature 
A  gracious  person  ;  but  yet  I  cannot  love  him. 
He  might  have  took  his  answer  long  ago. 

Viola.    If  I  did  love  you  in  my  master's  flame, 
With  such  a  suffering,  such  a  deadly  life, 
In  your  denial  I  would  find  no  sense  ; 
I  would  not  understand  it. 


Twelfth  Night ;  or,  What  You  Will,     303 

Olivia.  Why,  what  would  you  ? 

Viola.     Make  me  a  willow  cabin  at  your  gate, 
And  call  upon  my  soul  within  the  house  ; 
Write  loyal  cantons  of  contemned  love. 
And  sing  them  loud  e'en  in  the  dead  of  night ; 
Holla  your  name  to  the  reverberate  hills, 
And  make  the  babbling  gossip  of  the  air 
Cry  out,  Olivia !     O  !  you  should  not  rest 
Between  the  elements  of  air  and  earth 
But  you  should  pity  me. 

Olivia.  You  might  do  much. 

What  is  your  parentage  ? 

Viola.     Above  my  fortunes,  yet  my  state  is  well ; 
I  am  a  gentleman. 

Olivia.  Get  you  to  your  lord. 

I  cannot  love  him  ;  let  him  send  no  more,  — 
Unless  perchance  you  come  to  me  again 
To  tell  me  how  he  takes  it.     Fare  you  well. 
I  thank  you  for  your  pains  ;  spend  this  for  me. 

Viola.     I  am  no  fee'd  post,  lady  ;  keep  your  purse. 
My  master,  not  myself,  lacks  recompense. 
Love  make  his  heart  of  flint  that  you  shall  love ! 
And  let  your  fervor,  like  my  master's,  be 
Placed  in  contempt.     Farewell,  fair  cruelty.  {Exit. 

Olivia.     What  is  your  parentage  ? 
"  Above  my  fortunes,  yet  my  state  is  well ; 
I  am  a  gentleman."    I  '11  be  sworn  thou  art. 
Thy  tongue,  thy  face,  thy  limbs,  actions,  and  spirit 
Do  give  thee  five-fold  blazon.     Not  too  fast !  — soft,  soft, 
Unless  the  master  were  the  man.     How  now  } 
Even  so  quickly  may  one  catch  the  plague  } 
Methinks  I  feel  this  youth's  perfections. 
With  an  invisible  and  subtle  stealth. 
To  creep  in  at  mine  eyes.     Well,  let  it  be. 
What,  ho,  Malvoliol  — 

Malvolio.  Here,  madam,  at  your  service. 

Olivia.     Run  after  that  same  peevish  messenger. 
The  County's  man.     He  left  this  ring  behind  him. 
Would  I  or  not;  tell  him  I  '11  none  of  it ; 
Desire  him  not  to  flatter  with  his  lord. 


304     Twelfth  Night ;  or.  What  You  Will. 

Nor  hold  him  up  with  hopes  ;  I  am  not  for  him. 
If  that  the  youth  will  come  this  way  to-morrow, 
I  '11  give  him  reasons  for  't.     Hie  thee,  Malvolio. 

In  this  scene  you  will  observe  that  Viola  begins  by  a  little 
over-acting  her  part  of  the  saucy  page.  She  comprehends 
in  what  the  Duke  has  erred  in  his  courtship ;  she  knows  he 
should  have  wooed  in  person,  put  his  fervor  into  action,  and 
have  carried  his  point  by  storm.  But  it  is  Orsino's  nature  to 
be  the  too  patient,  somewhat  philandering  admirer.  Some 
of  us  must  have  known  how  hard  it  is  to  spur  up  one  who 
hesitates  and  fears,  to  be  an  active  lover.  Viola,  who  no 
doubt,  in  her  page's  dress,  strongly  resembles  her  brother 
Sebastian,  —  minus  the  manly  boldness  of  his  bearing, — 
charms  Olivia  from  the  very  first,  interests  and  stimulates 
her.  Her  dull  and  lonely  life  had  not  been  broken  into  by 
anything  so  interesting  for  many  months.  The  mystery  that 
hangs  about  the  youth,  his  unfeigned  admiration  of  her 
beauty  (which  Viola,  with  a  pang,  is  generous  enough  to 
acknowledge  and  to  praise),  his  assurance  that  his  birth 
makes  him  her  equal,  his  refusal  of  her  purse,  which  con- 
firms this  impression,  —  all,  combined  with  the  ripeness  of  her 
own  heart  for  love,  throw  Olivia  off  her  balance.  "  Lord  of 
herself,"  hke  Portia,  she  is  not,  though  hitherto  a  gracious, 
sweet,  and  somewhat  ostentatiously  reserved  great  lady.  No 
doubt  Viola  had  been  preaching  personal  persistency  to  her 
Duke;  and  she  gives  Olivia  the  benefit  of  her  reflections 
when  she  says  that  whereas  Orsino  loves  with  tears,  and 
groans,  and  sighs,  she  would  put  her  love  into  action,  would 
take  no  denial,  would  sit  at  her  lady's  gate,  would  sing  her 
love-songs  in  the  dead  of  night,  "  holla  her  name  to  the 
reverberate  hills,  and  make  the  very  breezes  cry,  Olivia ! " 


Twelfth  Night ;  or.  What  You  WilL     305 

Alas  !  she  had  to  hide  her  love,  poor  girl,  in  tears  and  sighs, 
and  plead  before  this  insensible  beauty  the  cause  of  one  she 
fain  would  have  for  her  own. 

Act   II.     Scene  i. 

The  opening  scene  of  this  second  act  is  on  the  sea-coast ; 
the  speakers  are  the  sea-captain  Antonio,  who  has  picked 
Sebastian  up  at  sea,  —  and  that  young  gentleman.  Like 
his  sister,  he  has  the  happy  gift  of  making  every  one  believe 
in  him  and  love  him ;  he  is  bound  to  Orsino's  court,  and 
tells  us,  incidentally,  that  he  and  his  sister  were»  persons  of 
the  highest  consideration  in  their  own  country ;  so  that  there 
was  no  misalliance  in  their  subsequent  marriages.  Antonio 
offers  to  attach  himself  to  Sebastian  as  his  servant,  but 
Sebastian,  with  words  of  tenderness  and  courtesy,  declines 
the  proposition.  Antonio,  indeed,  had  reasons  for  avoiding 
Orsino's  dominions.  To  use  the  slang  phrase  of  our  poHce, 
he  knew  that  he  was  "  wanted  "  there,  having  at  one  time 
fought  the  galleys  of  Illyria,  very  probably  as  a  freebooter, 
and  been  condemned  to  death  for  it. 

Scene  2. 

Here  we  have  Malvolio,  churlishly  and  roughly  accosting 

Viola,  and  flinging  at  her  Countess  Olivia's  ring.     The  truth 

that  Olivia  believes  herself  in  love  with  her  —  the  page  — 

dawns  upon  Viola,  as  the  prim  steward  leaves  her ;  she  does 

not  scorn  OHvia,  as  happy  Rosalind  scorned   Phebe,  but 

inasmuch  as 

That  woman  could  not  be  of  nature's  making 
Who,  being  kind,  her  misery  made  not  kinder, 

her  own  unhappy  love  leads  her  to  pity  her.     She  says,  — 

20 


3o6     Twelfth  Night ;  or.  What  You  Will. 

I  left  no  ring  with  her ;  what  means  this  lady  ? 

Fortune  forbid  my  outside  have  not  charmed  her  1 

She  made  good  view  of  me ;  indeed,  so  much 

That,  sure,  methought,  her  eyes  had  lost  her  tongue  ; 

For  she  did  speak  in  starts,  distractedly. 

She  loves  me,  sure  ;  the  cunning  of  her  passion 

Invites  me  in  this  churlish  messenger. 

None  of  my  lord's  ring  ?  why,  he  sent  her  none. 

I  am  the  man.     If  it  be  so  (as  't  is). 

Poor  lady,  she  were  better  love  a  dream. 

Disguise,  I  see  thou  art  a  wickedness. 

Wherein  the  pregnant  enemy  does  much. 

How  easy  is  it  for  the  proper-false 

In  women's  waxen  hearts  to  set  their  forms  ! 

Alas !  our  frailty  is  the  cause,  not  we. 

For,  such  as  we  are  made  of,  such  we  be. 

How  will  this  fadge  ?    My  master  loves  her  dearly. 

And  I,  poor  monster,  fond  as  much  on  him ; 

And  she,  mistaken,  seems  to  dote  on  me. 

What  will  become  of  this  ?    As  I  am  man, 

My  state  is  desperate  for  my  master's  love ; 

As  I  am  woman,  now  alas  the  day ! 

What  thriftless  sighs  shall  poor  Olivia  breathe! 

O  time,  thou  must  untangle  this,  not  I  ; 

It  is  too  hard  a  knot  for  me  to  untie. 

This  must  be  a  very  hard  play  to  put  upon  the  stage  in 
modern  times,  owing  to  the  repeated  changes  in  scenery.  In 
Shakspeare's  Globe  Theatre  all  they  did  was  to  set  up  a 
board  inscribed  The  Sea  Coast.  A  Street.  A  room  in 
Olivia's  House,  and  so  on. 

Scene  3. 

Scene  third  is  a  room  in  Olivia's  house,  where  Sir  Toby, 
his  victim  Sir  Andrew,  and  Feste  the  fool  are  carousing  in 
company.  Sir  Andrew  has  just  hinted  that  it  may  be  time 
to  go   to   bed.      All   that   Sir  Toby  says,  his  science  and 


Twelfth  Night ;  or,  What  You  Will.     307 

his  Latin,  is  equally  confusing  to  Sir  Andrew,  whom  it 
pleases  Sir  Toby  to  make  believe  is  a  man  of  parts  and 
learning. 

Sir  Toby.  Approach,  Sir  Andrew  ;  not  to  be  a-bed  after  midnight 
is  to  be  up  betimes,  and  diluculo  surgere,  thou  knowest  — 

Sir  Andrew.  Nay,  by  my  troth,  I  know  not ;  but  I  know  that  to 
be  up  late  is  to  be  up  late. 

Sir  Toby.  A  false  conclusion,  —  I  hate  it  as  an  unfilled  can ;  to  be 
up  after  midnight,  and  to  go  to  bed  then  is  early  ;  so  that  to  go  to  bed 
after  midnight  is  to  go  to  bed-  betimes.  Do  not  our  lives  consist  of 
four  elements  ? 

.  Sir  Andrew.  Faith,  so  they  say ;  but  I  think  it  rather  consists  of 
eating  and  drinking. 

Sir  Toby.  Thou  art  a  scholar !  let  us  therefore  eat  and  drink. 
Maria,  I  say !  —  a  stoop  of  wine  ! 

Sir  Andrew.     Here  comes  the  fool,  i'  faith. 

Fool.  How  now,  my  hearts  ?  Did  you  never  see  the  picture  of  we 
three  ? 

Sir  Toby.  Come  on ;  there 's  sixpence  for  you  ;  let 's  have  a 
song. 

Sir  Andrew.  There 's  a  testril  of  me,  too.  If  one  knight  give  away 
sixpence,  so  will  I  give  another  ;  go  to,  —  a  song. 

Fool.    Would  you  have  a  love-song,  or  a  song  of  good  life  ? 

Sir  Toby.     A  love-song !     A  love-song ! 

Sir  Andrew.    Ay,  I  care  not  for  good  life. 

Song. 

O  mistress  mine,  where  are  you  roaming  ? 
O,  stay  thou  here  ;  thy  true  love 's  coming, 

That  can  sing  both  high  and  low. 
Trip  no  further,  pretty  sweeting, 
Journeys  end  in  lovers'  meeting, 

Every  wise  man's  son  doth  know. 

What  is  love  ?  't  is  not  hereafter  ; 
Present  mirth  hath  present  laughter  ; 

What 's  to  come  is  still  unsure. 
In  delay  there  lies  no  plenty, 


3o8     Twelfth  Night;  or,  What  You  Will. 

Then  come  kiss  me,  sweet-and-twenty, 
Youth 's  a  staff  will  not  endure. 

\Enter  Maria. 

Maria.  What  a  caterwauling  do  you  keep  here  !  If  my  lady  have 
not  called  up  her  steward,  Malvolio,  and  bid  him  turn  you^  out  of 
doors,  never  trust  me. 

Sir  Toby.  My  lady's  a  Catanian,  we  are  politicians,  Malvolio  's  a 
Peg-a-Ramsey,  and  "  Three  merry  men  are  we  !  "  Am  I  not  con- 
sanguineous ?  am  I  not  of  her  blood .?  Tilly-valley,  lady !  {Sings^ 
*'  There  dwelt  a  man  in  Babylon,  lady,  lady." 

Fool.     Beshrew  me,  the  knight  is  in  admirable  fooling. 

Sir  Andrew.  Ay,  he  does  it  well  enough,  if  he  be  disposed,  and  so 
do  I,  too ;  he  does  it  with  a  better  grace,  but  I  do  it  more  natural. 

Sir  Toby  \singin^.    "^  Oh,  the  twelfth  day  of  December !  *' 

Maria.     For  the  love  of  God,  peace  ! 

Throughout  the  half-tipsy  talk  that  goes  on  in  this  scene 
there  are  numerous  allusions  which  have  puzzled  the  com- 
mentators. A  great  many  vain  words,  the  utterances  of  Dry- 
as-dust,  have  been  expended  in  unsatisfactory  explanations. 
We  may  be  content  not  to  know  what  the  tipsy  knight 
means  by  a  Catanian,  —  who  was  Pigrogromitus,^  or  what 
connection  the  Myrmidons  had  with  bottled  ale.  As  Sir 
Toby  is  trolling  out  his  song, 

"  Oh,  the  twelfth  day  of  December  !  " 

(an  allusion,  I  believe,  to  the  day  of  the  accession  of  Queen 
Elizabeth)  Malvolio  comes  in,  crying,  — 

My  masters,  are  you  mad  ?  or  what  are  you  ?  have  you  no  wit, 
manners,  nor  honesty,  but  to  gabble  like  tinkers  at  this  time  o'  night  "i 
Do  ye  make  an  ale-house  of  my  lady's  house  ?  Is  there  no  respect  of 
place,  persons,  or  time,  in  you  "i 

Sir  Toby.     We  did  keep  time,  sir,  in  our  catches. 

Malvolio.  Sir  Toby,  I  must  be  round  with  you  ;  my  lady  bade  me 
tell  you  that  though  she  •  harbors  you  as  her  kinsman,  she 's  nothing 

1  Mentioned  by  Sir  Andrew  and  Feste,  in  speeches  omitted. 


Twelfth  Night;  or  What  You  Will,     309 

allied  to  your  disorders  ;  if  you  can  separate  yourself  and  your  mis- 
demeanors you  are  welcome  to  the  house ;  if  not,  an  it  would  please 
you  to  take  leave  of  her,  she  is  very  willing  to  bid  you  farewell. 

Sir  Toby  answers  this  threat  of  dismissal  by  singing  a 
popular  catch,  with  the  clown. 

Farewell,  dear  heart,  since  I  must  needs  be  gone. 

This  first  line  frightens  Malvolio,  who  had  no  expectation  of 
being  taken  at  his  word. 

His  eyes  do  show  his  days  are  almost  done. 

But  I  will  never  die ! 

Shall  I  bid  him  go  ? 

What  an  if  you  do? 
Shall  I  bid  him  go,  and  spare  not  ? 
No  !  no !  no  I  no !  no !  you  dare  not ! 

This  last  line,  improvised  for  the  occasion,  is  sung  by  the 
fool  j  then  Sir  Toby  turns  upon  Malvolio  with  a  reference 
to  his  late  inquiry  whether  the  rollicking  trio  had  no  respect 
of  place,  persons,  or  time. 

Out  o'  time  ?  sir,  ye  lie.  Art  any  more  than  a  steward  ?  Dost  thou 
think,  because  thou  art  virtuous,  there  shall  be  no  more  cakes  and  ale  ? 

The  allusion  in  this  often-quoted  passage  is  to  an  old- 
fashioned  custom  of  eating  ginger-cakes  and  drinking  stronger 
ale  than  usual  upon  Saints'  days.  This  custom  was  discoun- 
tenanced by  the  Puritans,  as  "a  rag  of  Popery." 

The  fool  follows  up  the  allusion  to  ginger-cakes  with  — 

And  ginger  shall  be  hot  in  the  mouth,  too. 

Then  Sir  Toby  turns  contemptuously  to  the  steward,  and 
bids  him  spend  his  time  rubbing  his  gold  chain  (the  badge 
of  his  office)  bright  with  bread-crumbs,  winding  up  with  a 
call  for  more  wine  to  Maria. 


3IO     Twelfth  Night ;  or.  What  You  Will, 

Malvolio.  Mistress  Mary,  if  you  prized  my  lady's  favor  at  anything 
more  than  contempt,  you  would  not  give  means  for  this  uncivil  rule. 
She  shall  know  of  it,  by  this  hand  ! 

With  these  words  he  retires  discomfited,  and  the  three  men 
and  Maria,  whom  he  has  offended,  remain  to  plot  vengeance 
against  him.  Sir  Andrew  proposes  to  challenge  him.  Sir 
Toby  claims  the  fun  of  carrying  the  challenge  as  a  good  joke, 
but  woman's  wit  devises  a  better  plan.     Maria  says  :  — 

Sweet  Sir  Toby,  be  patient  for  to-night.  Since  that  youth  of  the 
Count's  was  to-day  with  my  lady  she  is  much  out  of  quiet.  For  Mon- 
sieur Malvolio,  let  me  alone  with  him.  If  I  do  not  gull  him  into  a  nay- 
word,  and  make  him  a  common  recreation,  do  not  think  I  have  wit 
enough  to  lie  straight  in  my  bed.     I  know  I  can  do  it. 

Sir  Toby,  who  is  startled  by  Maria's  hint  about  Duke 
Orsino's  page,  cries  :  *'  Possess  us  !  Possess  us  !  Tell  us 
something  about  him  !  "  But  Maria  turns  the  subject  by 
feigning  to  think  he  is  speaking  of  Malvolio.  "  Marry,  sir," 
she  says,  "  sometimes  he  is  a  kind  of  Puritan." 

Sir  Andrew.     0 1  if  I  thought  that  I  would  beat  him  like  a  dog. 

Sir  Toby.  What,  for  being  a  Puritan.?  Thine  exquisite  reason, 
dear  knight. 

Sir  Andrew.  I  have  no  exquisite  reason  for  it,  but  I  have  reasons 
good  enough. 

Maria.  The  devil  a  Puritan  that  he  is,  or  anything  constantly  but 
a  time-pleaser ;  an  afFectioned  ass,  that  cons  state  without  book,  and 
utters  it  by  great  swaths ;  the  best  persuaded  of  himself,  so  crammed 
as  he  thinks  with  excellences  that  it  is  his  ground  of  faith  that  all  who 
look  on  him  love  him,  and  on  that  vice  in  him  will  my  revenge  find 
notable  cause  to  work. 

Sir  Toby.     What  wilt  thou  do  ? 

Maria.  I  will  drop  in  his  way  some  obscure  epistles  of  love,  where- 
in by  the  color  of  his  beard,  the  shape  of  his  leg,  the  manner  of  his 
gait,  the  expression  of  his  eye,^ forehead,  and  complexion,  he  shall  find 
himself  most  feelingly  personated.     I   can  write  very  like  my  lady, 


Twelfth  Night;  or,  What  You  Will.     311 

your  niece.  On  a  forgotten  matter  we  can  hardly  make  distinction  of 
our  hands. 

Sir  Toby.     Excellent  !     I  smell  a  device. 

Sir  Andrew.     I  have  it  in  my  nose  too. 

Sir  Toby.  He  shall  think  by  the  letters  that  thou  wilt  drop  that 
they  come  from  my  niece,  and  that  she  is  in  love  with  him. 

Maria.     My  purpose  is  indeed  a  horse  of  that  color. 

Sir  Andrew.    And  your  horse  now  would  make  him  an  ass. 

Maria  \turning  on  Sir  Andrew\.     Ass  !  —  I  doubt  not. 

Sir  Andrew.     O  !  it  will  be  admirable  ! 

Maria.  Sport  royal,  I  warrant  you.  I  will  plant  you  two,  and  let 
the  fool  make  a  third,  where  he  shall  find  the  letter;  observe  his 
construction  of  it.     For  this  night,  to  bed,  and  dream  on  the  event. 

All  this  scene  of  the  noisy,  tipsy  revel  is  admirable.  Mal- 
volio  is  entirely  in  the  right,  and  is  pragmatically  trying  to  do 
his  duty.  Sir  Toby  and  the  fool,  half-tipsy,  will  do  nothing 
but  sing.  Maria  is  making  eyes  at  Sir  Toby ;  Sir  Andrew, 
with  lagging  wits,  tries  to  keep  up  with  the  fun  around  him, 
but  hardly  comprehends  a  word  of  it.  Maria  declares  Mal- 
volio  is  no  real  Puritan,  intimating  that  she  might  respect 
him  if  his  Puritanism  were  genuine  j  but  that  he  is  a  conceited 
ass,  and  a  pretentious  pedant,  crammed  with  self-conceit; 
and  thereupon  she  lays  a  plot  to  be  revenged  on  him.  Can 
we  imagine  Nerissa  counterfeiting  her  lady's  hand  to  play  off 
a  coarse  trick  on  old  Balthazar?  But  Olivia  has  forsaken 
the  practical  superintendence  of  her  household  for  the  in- 
dulgence of  sentimental  grief,  for  which  all  her  people  per- 
mit themselves  to  blame  her. 

Scene  4. 

This  scene  is  in  the  Duke's  house.  He  has  called  for 
music.  He  desires  a  sweet,  old,  melancholy  song,  and  Feste, 
Olivia's  fool,  who  is  roving  round  the  palace,  is  sent  for  to 
sing  to  him.     Meantime  he  communes  with  Cassario. 


312      Twelfth  Night ;  or,  What  You  Will. 

Come  hither,  boy.     If  ever  thou  shalt  love. 
In  the  sweet  pangs  of  it,  remember  me  ; 
For  such  as  I  am,  all  true  lovers  are.  .  .  . 
How  dost  thou  like  this  tune  ? 

Viola.     It  gives  a  very  echo  to  the  seat 
Where  love  is  throned. 

Duke.  Thou  dost  speak  masterly. 

My  life  upon  't,  young  though  thou  art,  thine  eye 
Hath  stayed  upon  some  favor  that  it  loves. 
Hath  it  not,  boy  ? 

Viola.  A  little,  by  your  favor. 

Dtike.     What  kind  of  woman  is  't  ? 

Viola.  Of  your  complexion. 

Duke.     She  is  not  worth  thee,  then.     What  years,  i'  faith  ? 

Viola.    About  your  years,  my  lord. 

Duke.    Too  old,  by  heaven  !     Let  still  the  woman  take 
An  elder  than  herself.     So  wears  she  to  him, 
So  sways  she  level  in  her  husband's  heart. 
For,  boy,  however  we  do  praise  ourselves. 
Our  fancies  are  more  giddy  and  unfirm, 
More  longing,  wavering,  sooner  lost  and  won. 
Than  women's  are. 

Viola.  I  think  it  well,  my  lord. 

Duke.     Then  let  thy  love  be  younger  than  thyself, 
Or  thy  affection  cannot  hold  the  bent. 
For  women  are  as  roses ;  whose  fair  flower. 
Being  once  displayed,  doth  fall  that  very  hour. 

Viola.     And  so  they  are.     Alas  !  that  they  are  so ; 
To  die  e'en  when  they  to  perfection  grow. 

[Enter  the  fool. 

Duke.     O  fellow,  come,  the  song  we  had  last  night. 
Mark  it,  Caesario,  it  is  old  and  plain. 
The  spinsters  and  the  knitters  in  th^sun, 
And  the  free  maids  that  weave  their  thread  with  bones, 
Do  use  to  chant  it.     It  is  silly  sooth, 
And  dallies  with  the  innocence  of  love 
Like  the  old  age. 

Song. 

Come  away,  come  away,  death, 
And  in  sad  cypress  let  me  be  laid ; 


Twelfth  Night;  or,  What  You  Will.     313 

Fly  away,  fly  away,  breath ; 

I  am  slain  by  a  fair,  cruel  maid. 
My  shroud  of  white,  stuck  all  with  yew, 

O,  prepare  it  I 
My  part  of  death  —  no  one  so  true 

Did  share  it. 
Not  a  flower,  not  a  flower  sweet, 

On  my  black  coffin  let  there  be  strown  ; 
Not  a  friend,  not  a  friend  greet 

My  poor  corpse  where  my  bones  shall  be  thrown. 
A  thousand  thousand  sighs  to  save. 

Lay  me,  O  !  where 
Sad  true  lover  ne'er  find  my  grave, 
To  weep  there. 
Duke.     There  's  for  thy  pains. 

Fool.    No  pains,  sir.     I  take  pleasure  in  singing,  sir. 
Duke.     I  '11  pay  thy  pleasure,  then. 

Fool.    Truly,  sir,  and  pleasure  will  be  paid  one  time  or  another. 
Duke.     I  give  thee  leave  to  leave  me. 

Fool.  Now  the  melancholy  god  protect  thee,  and  the  tailor  make 
thy  doublet  of  changeable  silk,  for  thy  mind  is  a  very  opal.  I  would 
have  men  of  such  constancy  put  to  sea,  that  their  business  might  be 
everything  and  their  intent  everywhere.  For  that 's  it  that  always  makes 
a  good  voyage  of  nothing. 

You  no  doubt  noticed  in  this  colloquy  the  delicate  descrip- 
tion of  the  song.  It  was  old  and  plain ;  but  spinning-girls 
and  knitters  in  the  sun,  or  lace-makers,  who  wove  their 
threads  with  bones,  were  used  to  sing  it.  Alas  !  the  song  was 
far  more  suited  to  the  state  of  mind  of  the  false  page  than  of 
his  master.  Note,  too,  the  piece  of  good  advice  that,  under 
cover  of  his  folly,  Feste  ventures  to  give  Duke  Orsino.  With 
his  knowledge  of  human  nature  he  sees  the  Duke  is  change- 
able, and  only  half  in  earnest  in  any  of  his  doings. 

Then  the  Duke,  left  alone  with  his  page,  tries  to  send  him 
again  on  an  embassy  to  Olivia.  Viola  seeks  to  be  excused 
the  commission. 


314     Twelfth  Night;  or,  What  You  Will, 

Viola.     But  if  she  cannot  love  you,  sir  ? 

Duke.     I  cannot  so  be  answered. 

Viola.  Sooth,  but  you  must. 

Say  that  some  lady,  as,  perhaps  there  is, 
Hath  for  your  love  as  great  a  pang  of  heart 
As  you  have  for  Olivia.     You  cannot  love  her. 
You  tell  her  so.     Must  she  not  then  be  answered  ? 

Duke.    There  is  no  woman's  sides 
Can  bide  the  beating  of  so  strong  a  passion 
As  love  doth  give  my  heart.     No  woman's  heart 
So  big  to  hold  so  much.  .  .  .  Make  no  compare 
Between  that  love  a  woman  can  bear  me 
And  that  I  owe  Olivia. 

Viola.  Ay,  but  I  know  — 

Duke.     What  dost  thou  know  ? 

Viola.    Too  well  what  love  women  to  men  may  owe. 
In  faith  they  are  as  true  in  heart  as  we. 
My  father  had  a  daughter  loved  a  man, 
As  it  might  be,  perhaps,  were  I  a  woman, 
I  should  your  lordship. 

l^uke.  And  what 's  her  history  ? 

Viola.     A  blank,  my;  jord.     She  never  told  her  love, 
But  let  concealment,  like  *  worm  i'  the  bud,    "    — 
Ji'eed^on  Tier  damask  clieek.    She  pined  in  thought, 
And  with  a^grecTrantTyellow  melancholy, 
She  sat,  like  Patience  on  a  monument. 
Smiling  at  grief.     Was  not  this  love  indeed  ? 
We  men  may  say  more,  swear  more  ;  but,  indeed. 
Our  shows  are  more  than  will ;  for  still  we  prove 
Much  in  our  vows,  but  little  in  our  love. 

Duke.     But  died  thy  sister  of  her  love,  my  boyf 

Viola.     I  am  all  the  daughters  of  my  father's  house. 
And  all  the  brothers  too,  —r  and  yet  I  know  not. 
Sir,  shall  I  to  this  lady? 

£)uke.  Ay,  that 's  the  theme. 

To  her  in  haste.     Give  her  this  jewel.     Say 
My  love  can  give  no  place,  bide  no  delay. 

Viola  had  almost  beguiled  the  Duke' into  forgetting  Olivia, 
when,  perhaps   as   a   self-inflicted   punishment   for   letting 


Twelfth  Night;   or,   What  You  Will     315 

her  feelings  get  the  better  of  her,  she  offers  to  go  on  his 
embassy. 

Scene  5. 

This  is  the  inimitable  scene  wherein  saucy  Maria  with  her 
confidants  befool  Malvolio.  Fabian  is  a  sort  of  gentleman- 
attendant  on  Olivia.  The  scene  is  very  hard  to  read  effect- 
ively, because  of  the  asides  that  break  Malvolio's  pompous 
soliloquy.  You  will  observe  how  Fabian  is  busy  all  the  time 
trying  to  hush  Sir  Toby,  who  in  his  turn,  whenever  Sir 
Andrew  attempts  to  speak,  grows  angry  with  him. 

The  scene  is  in  Olivia's  garden. 

Sir  Toby.     Come  thy  ways,  Signior  Fabian. 

Fabian.  Nay,  I  '11  come.  If  I  lose  a  scruple  of  this  sport  let  me  be 
boiled  to  death  with  melancholy. 

Sir  Toby.  Would'st  thou  not  be  glad  to  have  the  niggardly  rascal 
who  worries  us  come  by  some  notable  shame  ? 

Fabian.  I  would  exult,  man.  You  know  he  brought  me  out  of 
favor  with  my  lady  about  a  bear-baiting  here. 

Sir  Toby.  To  anger  him  we'll  have  the  bear  again,  and  we  will 
fool  him  black  and  blue.     Shall  we  not.  Sir  Andrew  t 

Sir  Andrew.     An  we  do  not,  it  is  a  pity  of  our  lives. 

Sir  Toby.  Here  comes  Maria,  the  little  villain !  How  now,  my 
nettle  of  India  ? 

Maria.  Get  ye  all  three  into  the  box-tree.  Malvolio's  coming 
down  this  walk.  He  has  been  yonder  in  the  sun,  practising  behavior 
to  his  own  shadow,  this  half-hour.  Observe  him,  for  the  love  of  mock- 
ery ;  for  I  know  this  letter  will  make  a  contemplative  idiot  of  him. 
Close  !  in  the  name  of  jesting  \thro%os  down  a  letter'].  Lie  thou  there, 
for  here  comes  the  trout  that  must  be  caught  with  tickling. 

{Exit  Maria. 

Malvolio.  '  T  is  but  fortune ;  all  is  fortune.  Maria  once  told  me 
she  did  affect  me ;  and  I  have  heard  herself  come  thus  near,  that 
should  she  fancy,  it  should  be  one  of  my  complexion.  Besides,  she 
uses  me  with  a  more  exalted  respect  than  any  one  else  that  follows 
her.     What  should  I  think  on 't  ? 

Sir  Toby.     Here  's  an  overweening  rogue  ! 


3i6     Twelfth  Night;  or,   What  You   Will, 

Fabian.  O !  peace.  Contemplation  makes  a  rare  turkey-cock  of 
him.     How  he  jets  under  his  ruffled  plumes  ! 

Sir  Andrew.     'Slight !     I  could  so  beat  the  rogue  — 

Sir  Toby.     Peace,  I  say.  ■"- 

MalvoUo.    To  be  Count  Malvolio  !  — 

Sir  Toby.     Ah  !  rogue. 

Sir  Andrew.     Pistol  him  !  pistol  him  ! 

Sir  Toby.    Peace  !  peace  ! 

Malvolio.  There  is  example  for  it ;  the  lady  of  the  Strozzi 
married  the  yeoman  of  the  wardrobe. 

Sir  Andrew.     Fie  on  him,  Jezebel ! 

Fabian.  O  !  peace ;  now  he  's  deeply  in.  Look  how  imagination 
blows  him  I 

Malvolio.  Having  been  three  months  married  to  her,  sitting  in 
my  state  — 

Sir  Toby.     O  !  for  a  stone-bow  to  hit  him  in  the  eye  ! 

Malvolio.  —  calling  my  officers  about  me,  in  my  branched  velvet 
gown  ;  having  come  from  a  day-bed  where  I  left  Olivia  sleeping. 

Sir  Toby.     Fire  and  brimstone  ! 

Fabian.    O,  peace,  peace ! 

Malvolio.  And  then  to  have  the  honors  of  state ;  and  after  a 
demure  travel  of  regard,  —  telling  them  I  know  my  place,  as  I  would 
they  should  do  theirs,  —  to  ask  for  my  kinsman  Toby. 

Sir  Toby.     Bolts  and  shackles  1 

Fabian.     O,  peace,  peace,  peace  !     Now,  now ! 

Malvolio.  Seven  of  my  people  with  an  obedient  start  make  out  for 
him.  I  frown  awhile,  and  perchance  wind  up  my  watch,  or  play  with 
.  .  .  some  rich  jewel.     Toby  approaches;  courtesies  there  to  me, — 

Sir  Toby.     Shall  this  fellow  live  ? 

Fabian.    Though  our  silence  be  drawn  from  us  with  cars,  yet  peace. 

Malvolio.  —  I  extend  my  hand  to  him,  thus,  quenching  my  familiar 
smile  with  an  austere  regard  of  control ; 

Sir  Toby.  And  does  not  Sir  Toby  take  you  a  blow  on  the  lips, 
then? 

Malvolio.  —  saying.  Cousin  Toby,  my  fortunes,  having  cast  me 
on  your  niece,  give  me  this  prerogative  of  speech. 

Sir  Toby.     What  ?     What  ? 

Malvolio.    You  must  amend  your  drunkenness ; 

Sir  Toby.     Out,  scab  ! 

Fabian.    Nay,  patience,  or  we  break  the  sinews  of  our  plot. 


Twelfth  Night;   or,   What  You   Will.     317 

Malvolio.  —  besides,  you  waste  the  treasure  of  your  time  with  a 
foolish  knight,  — 

Sir  Andrew.     That 's  me,  I  warrant  you ! 

Malvolio.  —  one  Sir  Andrew. 

Sir  Andrew.     I  knew  't  was  I,  for  many  do  call  me  fool. 

Malvolio  \picking  up  the  letter\     What  employment  have  we  here  ? 

Fabian.     Now  is  the  wood-cock  near  the  gin. 

Sir  Toby.  O!  peace,  and  the  spirit  of  humors  intimate  reading 
aloud  to  him ! 

Malvolio.  By  my  life,  this  is  my  lady's  hand.  These  be  her  very 
C's,  her  U's,  and  her  T's  ;  and  thus  she  makes  her  great  P's.  It  is,  in 
contempt  of  question,  her  hand  ! 

Sir  Andrew.     Her  C's,  her  U's,  and  her  T's  ?    Why  that  ? 

Malvolio  [reads].  "  To  the  unknown  beloved,  this,  and  my  good 
wishes  ;  "  her  very  phrases  !  By  your  leave,  wax.  Soft !  —  and  the 
impressure  her  Lucrece  with  which  she  uses  to  seal.  'T  is  my  lady. 
To  whom  should  this  be  ? 

Fabian.     This  wins  him  ! 

Malvolio  [reads].  "  Jove  knows  I  love  ; 
But  who  ? 
Lips,  do  not  move. 
No  man  must  know." 
"  No  man  must  know  ?  "^  What  follows  ?  The  number 's  altered.     "  No 
man  must  know."    If  this  should  be  thee,  Malvolio  ? 

Sir  Toby.    Marry,  hang  the  badger  ! 

Malvolio  [reads].  "  I  may  command  where  I  adore ; 

But  silence,  like  a  Lucrece  knife, 
With  bloodless  stroke  my  heart  doth  gore, 
M.  O.  A.  I.  doth  sway  my  life  ! " 

"  M.  O.  A.  I.  doth  sway  my  life,"  —  nay,  but  first,  let  me  see  —  let  me 
see  —  let  me  see.  "  I  may  command  where  I  adore."  Why,  she  may 
command  me.  I  serve  her  ;  she  is  my  lady.  Why,  this  is  evident  to 
any  formal  capacity.  There  is  no  obstruction  in  this.  And  the  end  } 
What  should  that  aphabetical  position  portend }  If  I  could  make  that 
resemble  something  in  me.     Softly  !     "  M.  O.  A.  I." 

Thus  he  continues,  endeavoring  to  affix  some  meaning  to 
the  letter,  till,  on  turning  over  the  page,  he  finds  some  prose. 
"...  Be  not  afraid  of  greatness.  Some  are  bom  great, 
some  achieve  greatness,  and  some  have  greatness  thrust  upon 


3i8     Twelfth  Night;   or,   What  You  Will. 

them.  .  .  .  Inure  thyself  to  what  thou  art  like  to  be.  Be  op- 
posite with  a  kinsman,  surly  with  servants,  .  .  .  put  thyself  into 
the  trick  of  singularity.  .  .  .  Remember  who  commended  thy 
yellow  stockings,  and  wished  to  see  thee  ever  cross-gartered." 
This  seems  to  Malvolio  to  decide  the  authorship  of  the  letter 
at  once.  "  She  did  commend  my  yellow  stockings,"  he 
cries ;  "  she  did  praise  my  leg  being  cross-gartered  \  "  and 
Puritan  though  he  may  be,  he  instantly  resolves  to  put  him- 
self into  gaudy  clothes, —  thanking  heaven  for  his  good 
fortunes.  His  antics  are  so  comical  that  Fabian,  hidden  in 
the  box-bush,  declares  he  would  not  have  missed  the  sport 
for  a  pension  of  thousands,  to  be  paid  by  the  Sophi.  On 
Malvolio's  leaving  that  part  of  the  grounds  to  change  his 
toilet,  Maria,  who  has  been  watching,  rushes  in. 

Maria.  If  you  will  then  see  the  fruits  of  the  sport,  mark  his  first 
approach  to  my  lady.  He  will  come  to  her  in  yellow  stockings,  and 
't  is  a  color  she  abhors ;  and  cross-gartered,  a  fashion  she  detests ;  and 
he  will  smile  upon  her,  which  will  now  be  so  unsuitable  to  her  disposi- 
tion, being  addicted  to  a  melancholy  as  she  is,  that  it  cannot  but  turn 
him  into  a  notable  contempt.    If  you  will  see  it,  follow  me ! 

Act  III.     Scene  i. 

Viola,  on  another  errand  for  the  Duke,  is  crossing  Olivia's 
garden  in  company  with  the  fool  Feste.  Feste  has  a 
shrewd  guess  that  there  is  something  strange  about  his  com- 
panion, and  ventures  on  a  hint  that  he  may  be  carrying  on 
some  intrigue  with  his  mistress.  This  does  not,  however, 
hinder  him  from  taking  the  page's  money,  and  favoring  his 
interview  with  the  Lady  Olivia.  Poor  Olivia!  she  needed 
indeed  a  husband  to  save  her  from  her  disorderly  menial 
crew.  Viola's  reflections  on  the  office  of  a  fool  are  ex- 
cellent. 


Twelfth  Night ;   or,   What  You   Will.     319 

This  fellow 's  wise  enough  to  play  the  fool, 

And  to  do  that  well  craves  a  kind  of  wit. 

He  must  observe  their  mood  on  whom  he  jests. 

The  quality  of  persons,  and  the  time  ; 

And  like  the  haggard,  check  at  every  feather 

That  comes  before  his  eye.     This  is  a  practice 

As  full  of  labor  as  a  wise  man's  art. 

Here  the  two  knights  enter,  —  Sir  Andrew  exchanging 
French  compliments  with  the  Duke's  gentleman  \  and  then 
Olivia,  attended  by  Maria,  somewhat  forgetful  of  her  vow 
of  strict  seclusion,  comes  hurrying  into  the  garden.  The 
others  are  dismissed,  and  then  follows  the  two  girls'  interview. 
Viola  begins  by  being  on  her  guard ;  Olivia,  the  great  lady, 
knowing  she  must  make  the  first  advances  to  Caesario,  pro- 
ceeds to  encourage  her  visitor.  Viola,  meaning  to  protect 
herself,  begins,  ''Dear  lady  —  "  when  Olivia,  perceiving  this 
will  be  the  prelude  to  an  expostulation,  breaks  in  breath- 
lessly to  excuse  herself  for  forwardness  in  having  sent  the 
ring  j  one  feels  she  had  been  brooding  over  it  ever  since  its 
rejection.  To  her  advances,  to  her  self-reproaches,  all 
Viola  will  answer  is,  "  I  pity  you."  Then  Olivia,  calling  up 
her  pride,  tries  to  make  believe  she  had  not  been  in  earnest, 
and  loftily  dismisses  the  Duke's  messenger.  Viola  accepts 
the  dismissal,  but  asks  :  "  May  I  not  carry  some  message 
to  my  master?  "  "  Stay,"  cries  Olivia;  "before  you  go,  let 
me  know  what  you  think  of  me."  "I  think,'*  says  Viola, 
*'you  think  you  are  not  what  you  are,"  —  that  is,  you  do  not 
know  you  are  deceiving  yourself.  Olivia  answers,  "  I  think 
the  same  of  you."  "Then  you  think  right,"  says  Viola;  "I 
am  not  what  I  seem."  Olivia  resumes  her  advances,  and 
then  a  flash  from  Viola's  eyes  —  Viola,  who  knows  so  well 
how  to  hide  love  with  delicate  tenderness  —  causes  Olivia's 


320     Twelfth  Night ;  or.    What  You   Will. 

passion  to  breab  all  bounds  ;  she  forgets  herself  completely, 
and  her  love  receives  a  firm  but  dignified  rejection.  Even 
this  does  not  prevent  Olivia's  saying,  — 

Yet  come  again ;  for  thou  perchance  may'st  move 
That  heart  which  now  abhors  to  like  his  love. 

Scene  2. 

The  interview  between  Duke  Orsino's  gentleman  and 
Olivia  had  a  spectator ;  one  who  saw  it  from  the  orchard,  — 
Sir  Andrew  Ague-cheek.  He  is  indignant  at  favors  shown  to 
the  Duke's  menial,  —  for  Olivia's  gestures  must  have  been  as 
suggestive  as  her  words,  —  and  is  for  giving  up  his  suit,  and 
going  home.  This,  Sir  Toby,  who  has  not  quite  plucked 
his  pigeon,  and  his  confederate  Fabian,  are  anxious  to  pre- 
vent. Sir  Toby  therefore  eagerly  urges  Sir  Andrew  to  remain, 
and  challenge  that  upstart,  the  Duke's  messenger. 

Sir  Toby.  Challenge  me  the  Count's  youth,  and  fight  with  him; 
hurt  him  in  eleven  places  ;  my  niece  shall  take  note  of  it ;  and  assure 
thyself  there  is  no  love-broker  in  the  world  can  more  prevail  in  man's 
commendation  with  women  than  report  of  valor. 

Fabian.     There  is  no  way  but  this,  Sir  Andrew. 

Sir  Andrew.     Will  either  of  you  bear  me  a  challenge  to  him  ? 

Sir  Toby.  Go,  write  it  in  a  martial  hand ;  be  curst  and  brief;  it  is 
no  matter  how  witty,  so  it  be  eloquent,  and  full  of  invention ;  taunt 
him  with  the  license  of  ink  ;  if  thou  thoii'st  him  some  thrice,  it  shall 
not  be  amiss ;  and  as  many  lies  as  will  lie  in  thy  sheet  of  paper ; 
although  the  sheet  were  big  enough  for  the  bed  of  Ware  in  England, 
set  'em  down.  Go  !  about  it !  let  there  be  gall  enough  in  thine  ink; 
though  thou  write  with  a  goose-pen,  no  matter ;  about  it  1 

\Exit  Sir  Andrew. 

Fabian.    This  is  a  dear  mannikin  to  you.  Sir  Toby. 

Sir  Toby.  I  have  been  dear  to  him,  lad,  —  some  two  thousand 
strong. 

Fabian.  We  shall  have  a  rare  letter  from  him ;  but  you  '11  not  de- 
liver it  ? 


Twelfth  Night;   or,   What  You  Will.     321 

Sir  Toby.  Never  trust  me,  then ;  and  by  all  means  stir  on  the 
youth  to  an  answer ;'  I  think  oxen  and  wainropes  cannot  hale  them 
together  ;  for  Andrew,  if  he  were  opened,  and  you  find  so  much  blood 
in  his  liver  as  would  clog  the  foot  of  a  flea,  I  '11  eat  the  rest  of  his 
anatomy. 

Fabian.  And  his  opposite,  the  youth,  bears  in  his  visage  no  great 
presage  of  cruelty. 

Scene  3. 

Then  comes  a  pretty  scene  in  the  street  between  Captain 
Antonio  and  Sebastian.  Antonio,  though  it  is  death  to  him 
to  walk  the  streets  of  the  Duke's  capital,  has  with  rash  love 
followed  Sebastian.  Before  they  part  he  forces  his  purse 
on  the  young  man  with  tender  care. 

Antonio.  Hold,  sir  —  here  's  my  purse  ; 

In  the  south  suburbs,  at  the  Elephant, 
Is  best  to  lodge ;  I  will  bespeak  our  diet. 
Whiles  you  beguile  the  time  and  feed  your  knowledge, 
With  viewing  of  the  town.     There  shall  you  have  me. 

Sebastian.     Why  I  your  purse  t 

Antonio.     Haply  your  eye  shall  light  upon  some  toy, 
You  have  desire  to  purchase  ;  and  your  store 
Is  not,  I  think,  for  idle  markets,  sir. 

Sebastian.     I  '11  be  your  purse-bearer. 

Scene  4. 

In  this  scene  we  see  Maria  acting  confidante  to  Countess 
Olivia's  love,  —  sure  to  betray  her  mistress  on  the  first  temp- 
tation. Olivia,  being  out  of  spirits,  —  desirous  even  of  the 
house  accounts  if  they  will  distract  her  thoughts,  —  sends 
for  Malvolio.  Maria  hints  to  her  that  he  is  conducting  him- 
self in  a  strange  fashion,  and  is  surely  possessed.  Olivia 
replies :  — 

Go,  call  him  hither ;  I  'm  as  mad  as  he. 

How  now,  Malvolio  ? 


322      Twelfth  Night ;   or.   What  You   Will, 

The  steward,  entering  in  his  fantastic  dress,  ogles  his  mis- 
tress, smiles  on  her,  quotes  portions  of  the  letter  he  has 
committed  to  memory,  and  altogether  bewilders  her.  "  Why 
appear  you,"  says  Maria,  "with  this  ridiculous  boldness 
before  my  lady?" 

MalvoUo.     "  Be  not  afraid  of  greatness,"  —  't  was  well  writ. 

Olivia.     What  meanest  thou  by  that,  Malvolio  ? 

MalvoUo.     "  Some  are  born  great,  —  " 

Olivia.     Ha ! 

Malvolio.    "  Some  achieve  greatness,  — " 

Olivia.     What  sayest  thou  ! 

Malvolio.    "  And  some  have  greatness  thrust  upon  them !  " 

Olivia.     Heaven  restore  thee  ! 

Malvolio.    "  Remember  who  commended  thy  yellow  stockings,  —  " 

Olivia.     Thy  yellow  stockings  ? 

Malvolio.     "And  wished  to  see  thee  cross-gartered." 

Olivia.     Cross-gartered  ? 

Malvolio.     *'  Go  to,  thou  art  made  if  thou  desirest  to  be  so,  —  " 

Olivia.     Am  I  made  ? 

Malvolio.     "  If  not,  let  me  see  thee  a  servant  still." 

Olivia.    Why,  this  is  very  midsummer  madness ! 

At  this  moment  a  servant  reports  that,  with  great  difficulty, 
he  has  succeeded  in  bringing  back  to  the  house  the  Duke's 
page;  and  Olivia,  only  pausing  to  desire  that  great  care 
may  be  taken  of  Malvolio,  hurries  out  to  meet  him.  As 
she  goes  she  adds  that  Maria  had  better  send  Sir  Toby  to 
look  after  the  poor  fellow.  This  order  seems  to  Malvolio  a 
glorious  confirmation  of  the  esteem  in  which  Countess  Olivia 
holds  him.  "  So  !  so  !  "  he  cries,  "  no  worse  man  than  Sir 
Toby  to  look  to  me  !  ...  I  have  limed  her ;  but  it  is 
Jove's  doing,  and  Jove  make  me  thankful.  And  when  she 
went  away,  — '  Let  this  fellow  be  looked  to.'  Fellow  !  not 
Malvolio  ! " 


Twelfth  Night ;  or,   What  You   Will,     323 

Maria,  Sir  Toby,  and  Fabian  burst  in  upon  their  victim. 
Maria  insists  he  is  possessed  of  a  devil.  Sir  Toby  makes  the 
most  irritating  attempts  to  soothe  him ;  Fabian  makes  mock 
exhortations  to  the  rest  to  be  gentle  with  him.  Indeed,  he  is 
really  afraid  they  may  carry  the  joke  too  far ;  and  when  Mal- 
voHo,  with  contempt  and  indignation,  stalks  away,  he  ex- 
claims, "Why,  we  shall  make  him  mad  indeed."  Maria, 
in  the  true  spirit  of  a  coarse  woman,  is  reckless  of  conse- 
quences. She  and  Sir  Toby  mean  to  make  the  most  of 
their  fun. 

Malvolio  is  no  sooner  out  of  the  way  than  in  comes  Sir 
Andrew  Ague-cheek,  with  his  absurd  challenge,  which  he  con- 
fides for  delivery  to  Sir  Toby.  The  close  of  it  is  :  "  Fare 
thee  well.  And  God  have  mercy  upon  one  of  our  souls  ! 
He  may  have  mercy  upon  mine,  but  my  hope  is  better,  and 
so  look  to  thyself."  After  receiving  Sir  Toby's  advice  to  He 
in  wait  for  Caesario,  to  draw  on  his  appearance,  and  swear 
roundly  at  him.  Sir  Andrew  swaggers  away.  Then  speaks 
Sir  Toby.  For  all  his  evil  living  and  his  drunkenness,  there 
were  still  left  in  him  some  traditions  of  a  gentleman. 

Now  will  I  not  deliver  this  letter ;  for  the  behavior  of  the  young 
gentleman  gives  him  out  to  be  of  good  capacity  and  breeding.  His 
employment  between  his  lord  and  my  niece  confirms  no  less.  There- 
fore, this  letter,  being  so  excellently  igjiorant,  will  breed  no  terror  in 
the  youth ;  he  will  find  it  comes  from  a  clod-pole.  But,  sir,  I  will  de- 
liver his  challenge  by  word  of  mouth ;  set  upon  Ague-cheek  a  notable 
report  of  valor  ;  and  drive  the  gentleman  (as  I  know  his  youth  will 
aptly  receive  it)  into  a  most  hideous  opinion  of  his  rage,  skill,  fury,  and 
impetuosity.  This  will  so  fright  them  both,  that  they  will  kill  one 
another  by  the  look,  like  cockatrices. 

Then  Viola  and  Olivia  enter.  Olivia  —  fully  conscious 
that  her  passion  has  carried  her  too  far  —  is  pleading  with 


324     Twelfth  Night ;   or.   What  You   Will. 

Caesario  for  his  good  opinion.  Viola,  with  rare  fidelity  to  her 
lord,  endeavors  to  turn  all  her  advances  to  the  interest  of 
Orsino.  "  The  distance  of  rank,"  says  Mrs.  Jameson, 
"  which  separates  the  Countess  from  the  page,  the  real  sex  — 
known  to  us  —  of  Viola,  the  dignified  elegance  of  Olivia's 
deportment,  except  when  passion  gets  the  better  of  her  pride, 
her  generous  care  of  Malvolio  in  the  midst  of  her  own 
troubles,  —  all  these  circumstances  raise  Olivia  in  our  fancy, 
and  render  her  caprice  for  the  page  a  source  of  merriment 
and  interest,  not  a  subject  of  reproach." 

Olivia.     I  have  said  too  much  unto  a  heart  of  stone, 
And  laid  mine  honor  too  unchary  out ; 
There  's  something  in  me  that  reproves  my  fault, 
But  such  a  headstrong,  potent  fault  it  is 
That  it  but  mocks  reproof 

Viola.     With  the  same  'havior  that  your  passion  bears, 
Go  on  my  master's  griefs. 

Olivia.     Here,  wear  this  jewel  for  me  ;  't  is  my  picture. 
Refuse  it  not ;  it  hath  no  tongue  to  vex  you ; 
And  I  beseecli  you,  come  again  to-morrow. 
What  ^\i2\\you  ask  q{  me  that  I  '11  deny. 
That  honor,  saved,  may  upon  asking  give  ? 

Viola.     Nothing  but  this,  —  your  true  love  for  my  master. 

Olivia.     How  with  mine  honor  may  I  give  him  that 
Which  I  have  given  to  you  ? 

Viola.  I  will  acquit  you. 

Olivia.     Well,  come  again  to-morrow.     Fare  thee  well. 
A  fiend  like  thee  might  bear  my  soul  to  hell. 

\Exit  Olivia. 

Olivia  has  no  sooner  left  the  spot  than  Viola  finds  herself 
accosted  by  Sir  Toby.  He  forces  on  her  Sir  Andrew's  chal- 
lenge, and  the  abject  cowardice  of  the  poor  girl  is  perfectly 
delightful.  She  is  ready  to  make  any  compromise,  or  to 
offer  any  apology  that  can  be  required  of  her,  rather  than 


Twelfth  Night ;  or.   What  You   Will.     325 

fight  her  challenger.  She  implores  Sir  Toby  to  make  up  the 
quarrel.  She  says,  "  I  beseech  you  do  me  this  courteous 
office,  as  to  know  of  the  knight  what  my  offence  to  him  is. 
It  is  something  of  my  negligence,  nothing  of  my  purpose." 
Sir  Toby  makes  beheve  to  accept  the  mission,  desiring  Fabian 
to  stay  by  the  gentleman,  lest  he  should  run  away.  Fabian 
employs  the  time  in  drawing  a  picture  of  Sir  Andrew  as  a 
renowned  fire-eater.  The  shamelessness  with  which  Viola 
owns  that  she  "  is  one  who  would  rather  go  with  Sir  Priest 
than  Sir  Knight,"  might  have  opened  his  eyes  to  the  fact  that 
she  was  neither  boy  nor  man. 

Meantime  Sir  Toby  is  frightening  Sir  Andrew  (who  has  no 
more  stomach  for  the  duel  than  poor  Viola)  with  an  account 
of  the  formidable  and  furious  adversary  who  has  been  pro- 
voked to  mortal  combat. 

Sir  Andrew.     Pox  on 't.     I  '11  not  meddle  with  him. 

Sir  Toby.  Ay,  but  he  will  not  now  be  pacified.  Fabian  can  scarce 
hold  him  yonder. 

Sir  Andrnv.  Plague  on  't.  Had  I  thought  he  had  been  valiant, 
and  so  cunning  in  fence,  I  'd  have  seen  him  damned  ere  I  had  chal- 
lenged him.  Let  him  let  the  matter  slip,  and  I  '11  give  him  my  horse, 
gray  Capilet. 

Then  to  Viola,  who  enters  at  that  moment  with  Fabian, 
Sir  Toby  (whispering)  says  :  — 

There  's  no  remedy,  sir.  He  will  fight  with  you  for  his  oath's  sake. 
Marry,  he  hath  better  bethought  him  of  his  quarrel,  and  he  finds  that 
now  scarce  to  be  worth  talking  of ;  therefore,  draw  for  the  supportance 
of  his  vow.     He  protests  he  will  not  hurt  you. 

Viola  [aside].  Pray  God,  defend  me !  A  little  thing  would  make 
me  tell  them  how  much  I  lack  of  a  man  ! 

As  she  says  this.  Sir  Toby  has  been  whispering  to  Sir 
Andrew :  — 


326     Twelfth  Night ;   or,   What  You   Will, 

There  is  no  remedy ;  the  gentleman  will  for  his  honor's  sake  have 
one  bout  with  you.  He  cannot  by  the  duello  avoid  it»  but  he  has 
promised  me  as  he  is  a  gentleman  and  soldier,  he  will  not  hurt  you. 
Come  on  !    To  't. 

Sir  Andrew.     Pray  God,  he  keep  his  oath. 

At  this  critical  moment  enters  the  sea-captain  Antonio. 
Seeing,  as  he  imagines,  a  man  about  to  draw  on  his  beloved 
Sebastian,  he  interferes,  and  wants  to  fight  Sir  Toby.  Viola's 
pleading,  the  moment  she  gets  a  chance  to  speak  to  her  ad- 
versary, is  deliciously  womanly.  Viola  is  the  only  one  of 
Shakspeare's  heroines  of  whom  he  permits  himself  to  make 
fun. 

Viola  \to  Sir  Andrew\.     Pray,  sir,  put  your  sword  up,  if  you  please. 

Sir  Andrew.  Marry  will  I,  sir, —  and  for  that  horse  I  promised  you, 
I  will  be  as  good  as  ray  word.  He  will  bear  you  easily,  and  reins 
well. 

At  this  moment  come  up  constables,  sent  to  arrest  Antonio. 
The  scene  is  piteous.  Antonio,  when  he  finds  there  is  no 
escape,  turns  with  a  little  resentment  to  the  youth  he  sup- 
poses to  be  Sebastian  :  — 

This  comes  of  seeking  you ;  but  there 's  no  remedy.  Now  my 
necessity  makes  me  ask  you  for  my  purse.     You  stand  amazed,  but  be 

of  comfort. 

• 

Alas  !  Viola  denies  that  she  has  ever  seen  his  purse.  She 
offers  half  of  her  own  little  store,  and  is  dumb-founded  when 
Antonio  breaks  out :  — 

Do  not  tempt  my  misery, 
Lest  that  it  make  me  so  unsound  a  man 
As  to  upbraid  you  with  those  kindnesses 
That  I  have  done  for  you. 

Viola.  I  know  of  none ; 

Nor  knew  I  you  by  voice  or  any  feature. 
I  hate  ingratitude  more  in  a  man 


Twelfth  Night;   or.  What  You   Will.     327 

Than  lying,  vainness,  babbling,  drunkenness, 
Or  any  taint  of  vice,  whose  strong  corruption 
Inhabits  our  frail  blood. 

Antojiio.  O  !  heavens  themselves  ! 

And  then  turning  around  to  the  bystanders,  the  officers  of 
the  law  and  the  assailants  of  Viola,  he  proceeds  in  burning 
bitter  words  to  tell  them  of  his  goodness  towards  this  very 
man  who  in  their  presence  has  declared  he  does  not  know 
him. 

But  as  he  is  led  off,  Viola,  deaf  to  what  is  passing  round 
her,  has  seized  upon  a  sudden  hope,  born  of  his  words.  He 
may  have  mistaken  her  for  her  twin,  —  her  brother.  Sir 
Toby  as  she  stands  spell-bound  thinks  he  sees  a  chance  of 
some  more  mischief.     He  cries  :  — 

A  very  dishonest,  paltry  boy,  and  more  a  coward  than  a  hare ;  his 
dishonesty  appears  in  leaving  his  friend  here  in  necessity  and  denying 
him,  —  and  for  his  cowardice,  ask  Fabian. 

Fabian.     A  coward,  a  most  devout  coward,  —  religious  in  it. 

Sir  Andrew.     'Slid,  I  '11  after  him  again,  and  beat  him. 

Sir  Toby.     Do !  cuff  him  soundly,  but  never  draw  the  sword. 

Then,  as  Sir  Andrew,  breathing  fury,  leaves  the  spot.  Sir 
Toby  whispers  to  Fabian,  "  I  dare  lay  any  money  't  will  be 
nothing  yet ! " 

Act  IV.     Scene  i. 

The  fourth  act  opens  before  Olivia's  house;  Feste,  the 
fool,  has  been  sent  to  see.  if  he  can  find  Caesario,  and 
encounters  Sebastian ;  Sebastian,  to  get  rid  of  him,  gives 
him  money  out  of  the  poor  captain's  purse.  Indeed,  I 
think  in  every  scene  the  fool  gets  something  from  some- 
body. 

At  this  moment  Sir  Toby,  Sir  Andrew,  and  Fabian  come 
upon  the  scene,  and  Sir  Andrew  (never  doubting  that  the 


328     Twelfth  Night;   or,   What  You   WilL 

young  man  before  him  is  his  late  cowardly  adversary)  strikes 
Sebastian.  Instantly  he  finds  himself  receiving  a  sound 
beating.  Feste  hurries  away  to  call  Olivia,  very  sure  that  she 
will  be  angry  at  an  attack  on  her  new  favorite.  Entering  on 
the  scene  in  haste,  Olivia  finds  Sir  Toby  and  (as  she  sup- 
poses) her  love,  Caesario,  with  their  swords  drawn.  She 
cries  :  —  "  Hold,  Toby  !  on  thy  life  I  charge  thee,  hold  !  " 

Sir  Toby.     Madam  ? 

Olivia.     Will  it  be  ever  thus  ?     Ungracious  wretch, 
Fit  for  the  mountains  and  the  barbarous  caves, 
Where  manners  ne'er  were  preached  !  out  of  my  sight  1 
Be  not  offended,  dear  Caesario ;    I  prithee,  gentle  friend, 

[Exeunt  Sir  Toby,  Sir  Andrew,  and  Fabian. 
Let  thy  fair  wisdom,  not  thy  passion,  sway 
In  this  uncivil  and  unjust  extent 
Against  thy  peace.     Go  with  me  to  my  house, 
And  hear  thou  there  how  many  fruitless  pranks 
This  ruffian  hath  botched  up,  that  thou  thereby 
May'st  smile  at  this.     Thou  shalt  not  choose  but  go ; 
Do  not  deny ;  beshrew  his  soul  for  me, 
He  started  one  poor  heart  of  mine  in  thee. 

Sebastian.     What  relish  is  in  this  1  how  runs  the  stream  } 
Or  I  am  mad,  or  else  this  is  a  dream. 
Let  Fancy  still  my  sense  in  Lethe  steep 
If  it  be  thus  to  dream,  still  let  me  sleep. 

Olivia.     Nay,  come,  I  prithee ;  would  thou  'dst  be  ruled  by  me  ? 

Sebastian.     Madam,  I  will. 

Olivia.  O  I  say  so,  and  so  be. 

Great  is  Olivia's  delight  at  what  she  believes  to  be  Caesa- 
rio's  surrender  and  submission. 

Scene  2. 

Within  the  house  Maria  and  her  confederates  have  plotted 
to  sham-exorcise  poor  Malvolio,  whom  they  are  treating  as 
a  madman.     They  have  dressed  up  the  fool  to  personate 


Twelfth  Night;   or.  What  You   Will.     329 

Sir  Topas,  the  curate ;  and,  as  the  room  in  which  Malvolio 
has  been  placed  is  dark,  and  the  fool  is  a  ventriloquist, 
Malvolio  is  wholly  unable  to  detect  the  fraud. 

The  steward  is  evidently  a  man  of  some  pretensions  to 
an  austere  piety;  I  wonder  no  one  quotes  now-a-days  his 
words,  "I  think  nobly  of  the  soul,  and  by  no  means  ap- 
prove that  opinion,"  when  it  is  suggested  to  him  that  the 
soul  of  his  great-grandmother  might  haply  inhabit  (or  have 
inhabited)  a  bird.  Sir  Toby  by  this  time  seems  to  have 
grown  anxious  to  be  well  out  of  the  scrape ;  yet  he  cannot 
refuse  himself  the  enjoyment  of  more  fun. 

Malvolio.     Sir  Topas,  good  Sir  Topas,  go  to  my  lady. 
Fool.     Out,  hyperbolical  fiend !  how  vexest  thou  this  man  1  talkest 
thou  nothing  but  of  ladies  ? 

The  next  scene  is  the  fool's  tete-a-tete  interview  with 
Malvolio  in  his  own  proper  person.  Feste  enters  the  cham- 
ber singing,  each  line  being  interrupted  by  a  despairing 
call  from  Malvolio.  Very  much  changed  is  his  behavior  to 
the  fool  since  the  first  time  we  heard  him  speak  of  that 
vain  personage  to  Countess  Olivia.  The  room  being  dark, 
the  fool  changes  his  voice  at  pleasure,  from  his  natural 
tones  to  those  of  Sir  Topas. 

Malvolio.  Good  fool,  help  me  to  some  light,  and  some  paper.  I 
tell  thee  I  am  as  well  in  my  wits  as  any  man  in  Illyria. 

Fool.     Well-a-day,  —  that  you  were,  sir  1 

Malvolio.  By  this  hand,  I  am ;  good  fool,  some  ink,  paper,  and 
light,  and  convey  what  I  will  set  down  to  my  lady ;  it  shall  advantage 
thee  more  than  ever  the  bearing  of  letter  did. 

Fool.  I  will  help  you  to't.  But  tell  me  true,  are  you  not  mad 
indeed  ?  or  do  you  counterfeit  ? 

Malvolio.     Believe  me,  I  am  not ;  I  tell  thee  true. 

Fool.  Nay,  I  '11  ne'er  believe  a  madman  till"!  see  his  brains ;  I  will 
fetch  you  light,  and  paper,  and  ink. 


330     Twelfth  Night;  or.  What  You  Will, 

We  are  glad  that  the  fool  makes  the  prisoner  this  promise ; 
but  the  fun  has  gone  quite  far  enough,  and  he  knows  it. 

Scene  3. 

Here,  in  Olivia's  garden,  we  see  the  bewildered  Sebastian  ; 
and  presently  in  comes  the  Countess,  who,  in  her  perplexity, 
makes  the  request,  that  while  he  is  in  his  present  humor  of 
compliance  he  will  go  with  her  to  a  neighboring  chantry,  and 
solemnly  pledge  his  faith  to  her ;  she  has  consulted  her  con- 
fessor on  the  subject,  and  brings  him  with  her.     She  says  :  — 

Blame  not  this  haste  of  mine  ;  if  you  mean  well 
Now  go  with  me,  and  with  this  holy  man 
Into  the  chantry  by  ;  there,  before  him> 
And  underneath  that  consecrated  roof, 
Plight  me  the  full  assurance  of  your  faith  ;. 
That  my  most  jealous  and  too  doubtful  soul 
May  live  at  peace.     He  shall  conceal  it 
Whiles  you  are  willing.     It  shall  come  to  note 
What  time  we  will  our  celebration  keep 
According  to  my  birth.     What  do  you  say  ? 

Sebastian.     I  'U  follow  this  good  man,  and  go  with  you, 
And  having  sworn  truth,  ever  will  be  true. 

Olivia.     Then  lead  the  way,  good  father ;  an'  heavens  so  shine 
That  they  may  fairly  note  this  act  of  mine. 

Act  V.     Scene  i. 

In  this  scene  we  have  the  Duke  in  the  street  before 
Olivia's  house;  he  is  coming  to  call  upon  his  lady,  and 
obtain  some  light  upon  the  strange  events  reported  to  him 
by  Caesario.  At  this  moment  the  constables  bring  up  An- 
tonio ;  whose  courage  and  seamanship  the  Duke  frankly 
acknowledges,  though  at  first  he  is  prepared  to  execute 
sharp  justice  on  the  old  seaman  as  an  offender ;  but  Viola 
pleads  for  her  protector,  who  saved  her,  she  believes,  when 


Twelfth  Night  I   or,   What  You   Will.     331 

in  peril  of  her  life,  and  the  Duke  is  moved  to  show  clemency 
to  his  gallant  enemy.     He  thus  addresses  him  :  — 

Notable  pirate!  thou  salt-water  thief t 
What  foolish  boldness  brought  thee  to  their  mercies 
Whom  thou  in  terms  so  bloody,  and  so  dear^ 
Hast  made  thine  enemies  ? 

Antonio.  Orsino,  noble  sir, 

Be  pleased  that  I  shake  off  those  names  you  give  me. 
Antonio  never  yet  was  thief  or  pirate, 
Though,  I  confess,  —  on  base  and  ground  enough,,  — 
Orsino's  enemy.     A  witchcraft  drew  me  hither. 
That  most  ungrateful  boy,  there  by  your  side. 
From  the  rude  sea''s  enraged  and  foamy  mouth 
Did  I  redeem  ;  a  wreck  past  hope  he  was. 
His  life  I  gave  him,  and  did  thereto  add 
My  love,  without  retention  or  restraint,. 
All  his  in  dedication  :  for  his  sake 
Did  I  expose  myself  —  purely  for  his  love  — 
Into  the  danger  of  this  adverse  town  ; 
Drew  to  defend  him  when  he  was  beset, 
Where  —  being  apprehended  —  his  false  cunning 
(Not  meaning  to  partake  with  me  in  danger) 
Taught  him  to  face  me  out  of  his  acquaintance, 
And  grew  a  twenty-years-removed  thing 
While  one  could  wink ;  denied  me  my  own  purse 
Which  I  had  recommended  to  his  use. 
Not  half  an  hour  before. 

Viola.  How  can  this  be  ? 

Duke.     When  came  he  to  this  town  ? 

Antonio.     To-day,  my  lord  ;  and  for  three  months  before 
(No  interim  —  not  a  minute's  vacancy) 
Both  night  and  day  did  we  keep  company. 

[Enter  Olivia  and  attendants. 

Duke.    Here  comes  the  Countess  !  now  Heaven  walks  on  earth  I  — 
But  for  thee,  fellow,  fellow,  thy  words  are  madness  ; 
Three  months  this  youth  hath  tended  upon  me. 
But  more  of  this  anon.     Take  him  aside ! 

Olivia  is  no  longer  anxious  to  shun  the  Duke  ;  she  is  be- 
trothed, —  betrothed  solemnly  in  holy  sanctuary ;  he  cannot 


332     Twelfth  Night ;  or,   What  You   WilL 

have  her  for  his  wife,  and  she  seems  to  dread  no  unjust 
revengeful  usage  from  a  man  of  his  noble  character.  Yet 
even  in  the  Duke's  presence  she  turns  first  to  "Viola,  mistaking 
her  for  her  young  bridegroom,  who  has  left  her  (as  she  thinks) 
to  attend  upon  his  master ;  and  all  the  explanations  offered 
make  confusion  worse  confounded. 

Olivia.    What  would  my  lord  (but  that  he  may  not  have) 
Wherein  Olivia  may  seem  serviceable  ? 
Caesario  !  you  do  not  keep  promise  with  me. 

Viola.     Madam  ? 

Duke.  Gracious  Olivia,  — 

Olivia.     What  do  you  say,  Caesario  ?  —  Good  my  lord,  — 

Viola.    My  lord  would  speak,  my  duty  hushes  me. 

Olivia.     If  it  be  aught  to  the  old  tune,  my  lord, 
It  is  as  fat  and  fulsome  to  mine  ear 
As  howling  after  music. 

Duke.  Still  so  cruel  ? 

Olivia.    Still  so  constant,  lord. 

Then  the  Duke,  carried  away  by  anger  as  he  reads  her 
secret  on  the  faces  of  his  courtiers,  furious  with  his  treacher- 
ous page,  and  provoked  by  the  bold  bearing  and  unneces- 
sary insolence  of  Olivia,  cries  :  — 

Why  should  I  not,  had  I  the  heart  to  do 't, 

Like  to  the  Egyptian  thief,  at  point  of  death, 

Kill  what  I  love  ?  —  a  savage  jealousy 

That  sometimes  savors  nobly.     But  hear  me  this : 

Since  you  to  non-regardance  cast  my  faith, 

And  that  I  partly  know  the  instrument 

That  screws  me  from  my  true  place  in  your  favor, 

Live  you,  the  marble-hearted  tyrant,  still ; 

But  this  your  minion,  whom  I  know  you  love, 

And  whom,  by  Heaven,  I  swear  I  tender  dearly, 

Him  will  I  tear  out  of  that  cruel  eye, 

Where  he  sits  crowned  in  his  master's  spite. 

Come,  boy,  with  me  ;  my  thoughts  are  ripe  in  mischief; 


Twelfth  Night ;   or.   What  You   Will,     333 

I  '11  sacrifice  the  lamb  that  I  do  love, 

To  spite  a  raven's  heart  within  a  dove.  \Going. 

Viola  [following\.    And  I,  most  jocund,  apt,  and  willingly, 
To  do  you  rest,  a  thousand  deaths  would  die. 

Olivia.     Where  goes  Caesario  .'' 

Violh.  After  him  I  love, 

More  than  I  love  these  eyes,  more  than  my  life, 
More  by  all  means  than  e'er  I  shall  love  wife. 

Then  Olivia,  beside  herself  with  wounded  love,  and  terror, 
and  contempt  for  her  new  idol's  treachery,  calls  on  him 
frantically  to  come  back ;  one  of  the  attendants  has  rushed 
to  call  the  priest,  whom  she  adjures  to  corroborate  her 
statement  that  she  has  been  solemnly  plighted  to  Caesario 
not  two  hours  before. 

The  Duke  who  by  the  fool's  hints  has  probably  for  some 
days  past  been  induced  to  suspect  that  Caesario  is  his  rival 
in  Olivia's  good  opinion,  and  who  in  his  first  outbreak  has 
uttered  threats  with  (I  am  disposed  to  think)  no  very  cruel 
intentions,  no  sooner  learns  that  a  consecrated  tie  binds  his 
late  favorite  to  Olivia  than  he  briefly  says,  with  dignity  :  — 

Farewell,  and  take  her ;  but  direct  thy  feet 
Where  thou  and  I  henceforth  may  never  meet. 

"  My  lord,  I  do  protest,  —  "  cries  poor  Viola. 

"  O  !  do  not  swear,"  responds  no-less -to-be-pitied  Olivia. 
'•'  Hold  little  faith,  though  thou  hast  too  much  fear." 

At  this  moment  in  staggers  Sir  Andrew  Ague-cheek  with  a 
bleeding  head,  crying  out  that  he  and  Sir  Toby  have  both 
been  worsted  by  Caesario ;  Sir  Toby,  although  drunk,  is  gen- 
tleman enough  to  make  light  of  his  hurts,  though  he  falls  foul 
of  the  drunken  surgeon.  Olivia,  as  mistress  of  her  house- 
hold, takes  the  command,  and  orders  them  both  to  bed,  and 


334     Twelfth  Night ;  or^   What  You   Will. 

their  hurts  to  be  looked  to.  At  that  moment  appears  Sebas- 
tian, who  takes  no  notice  of  the  Duke  and  courtiers,  but 
at  once  addresses  the  Countess,  his  lady. 

Then,  step  by  step,  all  is  made  clear ;  to  the  last  the  Duke 
cannot  quite  get  over  his  custom  of  looking  upon  Viola  as 
a  boy,  even  though  he  offers  her  his  hand  and  heart  as  soon 
as  she  shall  have  resumed  her  maiden  habiliments. 

*'  It  seems  too  hard,"  says  the  author  in  the  "  Monthly 
Packet,"  "  that  Viola,  the  very  soul  of  fidelity  should  be 
accused  of  treachery  and  baseness  on  all  sides,  without 
yi  seeing  any  answer  to  make  or  any  way  of  clearing  herself. 
She  stands  thunderstruck  while  Antonio,  Olivia,  the  Priest, 
and  Orsino,  one  after  the  other,  turn  upon  her. 

"  It  makes  a  briUiant  picture ;  the  Duke,  flushed  with 
excitement,  in  the  foreground,  in  the  background  the  vener- 
able priest,  Antonio  and  the  oflficers,  beautiful  Olivia,  gazing 
in  bewilderment  at  the  handsome  youth  praying  for  her  for- 
giveness, and  Viola  quivering  with  hope  and  delight  as  she 
sees  her  beloved  brother  once  more.  Suddenly  Sebastian 
becomes  aware  of  Antonio,  and,  puzzled  at  his  greeting, 
stands  astonished  in  his  turn,  gazing  on  the  Duke's  page 
with  amazement." 

"Twelfth  Night"  is  a  play  that  should  be  read  as  a  whole. 
The  rattling  fire  of  its  fun  loses  its  force  when  the  story  is 
given,  as  I  have  given  it,  in  instalments. 

When  I  first  read  these  papers  as  parlor  lectures  in 
Baltimore,  I  earnestly  and  repeatedly  entreated  those  who 
heard  me  to  consider  them  as  introductory  to  the  pleasure 
they  would  feel  in  studying  the  plays  in  their  complete  form. 
I  would  strongly  recommend  for  reading  aloud  Bowdler's 
Shakspeare,  Rolfe's  School  Shakspeare,  or  that  which  Charles 


Twelfth  Night ;  or.   What  You   Will,     335 

Kemble  prepared  for  his  own  readings  in  public,  which  has 
been  lately  published  in  England,  and  can  be  had  at  very 
small  cost.  Shakspeare,  as  Coleridge  says,  is  never  immoral ; 
the  passages  which  contain  gross  language  are  all  put  into  the 
mouths  of  the  wicked,  though  the  manners  of  the  age  per- 
mitted delicate  young  women  sometimes  to  use  as  similes 
subjects  which  oiir  sex  would  now-a-days  avoid.  But  in 
reading  aloud  it  is  disagreeable  to  stumble  suddenly  on  such 
allusions ;  they  are  no  part  of  the  play ;  they  are  specks 
on  the  glass,  mere  motes  in  the  sunbeam,  and  can  be  left 
out  (as  indeed  such  passages  can  be,  thank  God,  in  all  great 
writers)  without  in  the  smallest  degree  injuring  the  effect, 
or  impairing  the  beauty  or  the  purpose  of  the  drama. 

HazHtt  says  of  this  play :  "  We  have  friendhness  for  Sir 
Toby,  we  patronize  Sir  Andrew,  we  have  an  understanding 
with  the  fool,  a  sneaking  kindness  for  Maria  and  her  rogue- 
ries ;  we  feel  a  regard  for  Malvolio,  and  sympathy  with  his 
gravity,  his  smiles,  his  cross-garters,  his  yellow  stockings,  and 
his  imprisonment,  but  there  is  something  that  excites  in  us 
a  stronger  feeling,  —  it  is  Viola's  confession  of  her  love.'* 
And  Campbell  adds  :  "  The  character  of  Viola  is  so  sweetly 
drawn  that  I  have  never  seen  justice  done  to  it  upon  the 
stage;  Mrs.  Siddons  was  too  tragic,  and  Mrs.  Jordan  too 
comic,  to  personate  Viola." 


V 


THE    MERCHANT    OF    VENICE. 


22 


THE   MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

THIS  is  one  of  the  most  complete  of  Shakspeare's 
dramas.  There  is  a  variety  of  characters  in  it,  each 
interesting  in  itself,  each  interesting  through  its  connection 
with  its  surroundings. 

Antonio  is  the  central  figure  of  the  piece,  the  pivot  around 
which  they  all  revolve ;  but  Portia  is  the  character  of  the 
play,  and  to  my  thinking,  the  "  highest,  noblest,  best,"  in 
Shakspeare's  gallery  of  women. 

Commentators  are  divided  as  to  the  leading  idea  of  the 
play,  if  it  must  have  a  leading  idea  to  make  it  perfect.  Is  it 
friendship  ?  Is  it  justice  ?  Is  it  property,  in  its  relations  to 
its  possessors  and  to  others  ? 

I  think  the  latter.  We  have  three  very  rich  people, — 
Antonio,  Portia,  Shylock.  Not  one  of  them  is  made  happy 
by  riches.  Antonio  is  saddened  by  responsibilities,  and 
beset  by  parasites ;  Portia  is  not  free  to  choose  for  herself 
in  marriage,  and  is  persecuted  by  suitors ;  Shylock's  heart  is 
a  serpent's  den,  and  his  house,  as  Jessica  informs  us,  is  a 
hell.  He  is  wretched  himself,  and  the  cause  of  wretchedness 
in  others. 

Antonio  is  simply  the  rich  man,  generous  (as  our  American 
rich  men  so  often  are),  but  without  wide-spreading  sym- 
pathies.    Portia  is  different.     Her  heart  is  throbbing  with 


340  The  Merchant  of  Venice.. 

sympathies ;  the  distribution  of  her  money  will  go  hand  in 
hand  with  her  warm  feelings.  Whatever  befalls  her,  she  will 
walk  through  life  scattering  blessings  as  she  goes. 

Bassanio  is  greatly  her  inferior.  He  has  led  the  life  of  a 
gay,  good-natured  spendthrift,  though  he  is  both  a  scholar 
and  a  soldier ;  and  there  is  far  better  stuff  in  him  than  at 
first  appears.  Antonio  has  discerned  his  better  nature,  Portia 
brings  it  into  action,  and  we  part  from  him  with  an  assured 
hope  that  he  is  purged  of  his  early  weaknesses,  —  remember- 
ing likewise  Becky  Sharp's  reflection,  that  it  is  easy  to  be  good 
on  ;£3000  a  year. 

Each  character  does  something  for  which  it  has  to  pre- 
sent excuses ;  each  wrong  has  something  right  in  it ;  each 
right  has  something  wrong.  Antonio's  higher  nature  is  stirred 
within  him  at  sight  of  the  cruel  grasping  of  the  Jew.  He 
treats  the  unbehever  with  contumely,  —  there  his  fault  lies. 
Bassanio,  the  true  friend  and  gentlemanly  lover,  is  reckless  in 
his  use  of  money,  even  squandering  in  a  farewell  banquet  to 
his  friends  part  of  the  three  thousand  ducats  borrowed  for 
other  uses.  Jessica,  with  all  the  excuses  we  can  make  for 
her,  is  a  dishonest,  disobedient,  treacherous  daughter.  Ne- 
rissa,  faithful  as  she  is,  is  pert ;  Gratiano  is  devoted  to  his 
friends,  but  vulgar  in  his  nature  and  loose  of  tongue ;  Shylock 
has  the  wrongs  of  his  race  to  retaliate  upon  the  Christians, — 
all  have  flaws  except  the  peerless  Portia. 

The  play  was  founded  on  two  stories.  The  germ  of  the 
casket-story  may  be  found  in  the  "Gesta  Romanorum,"  a 
tale-book  of  the  Middle  Ages ;  and  the  rest  is  supplied  from 
the  old  ballad  of  "  Geruntius,  or  the  Jew  of  Venice,"  —  taken 
probably  from  an  Indian  source,  and  brought  home  from 
the  Crusades,  —  or  it  may  have  been  founded  on  an  old 


The  Merchant  of  Venice.  341 

Italian  story.  The  play  is  thought  to  have  been  written  five 
years  before  Queen  Elizabeth's  death,  and  was  first  printed 
in  her  lifetime  (1600). 

Mrs.  Jameson  classes  Portia  with  Beatrice  and  Rosalind,  as 
characters  distinguished  for  mental  superiority.  "In  Portia," 
she  says,  "  we  have  intellect  kindled  into  romance  by  a  po- 
etical imagination ;  in  Beatrice,  intellect  animated  by  spirit ; 
in  Rosalind,  intellect  softened  by  sensibility.  What  Portia 
does,''  she  goes  on  to  say,  ''  is  forgotten  in  what  she  is,  —  in 
the  rare  and  harmonious  blending  of  energy,  reflection,  and 
feeling  in  her  character.  .  .  .  Her  high  mental  powers,  her 
enthusiasm  of  temperament,  her  decision  of  purpose,  and 
her  buoyancy  of  spirit  are  innate ; "  but  from  the  circum- 
stances that  have  surrounded  her  all  her  life,  she  has  received 
*'a  commanding  grace,  a  high-bred  elegance,  a  spirit  of  mag- 
nificence in  all  she  says  and  does,  as  one  to  whom  splendor 
had  been  familiar  from  her  infancy.  She  treads  as  though 
her  footsteps  had  always  been  among  marble  palaces,  beneath 
roofs  of  fretted  gold,  o'er  cedar  floors  and  pavements  of 
jasper  and  porphyry,  amid  gardens  full  of  statues  and  flowers 
and  fountains  and  haunting  music.  She  is  full  of  penetrative 
wisdom,  and  genuine  tenderness,  and  lively  wit ;  but  as  she 
has  never  known  want  or  grief  or  fear  or  disappointment, 
her  wisdom  is  without  a  touch  of  the  sombre  or  the  sad." 
I  do  not  quite  agree  in  this  last  remark  of  Mrs.  Jameson's. 
When  the  play  opens,  Portia  is  dreading  disappointment,  and 
a  little  cloud  of  melancholy  overshadows  her  merriment; 
but  it  passes  away  almost  at  once,  and  she  stands  forth  in 
glorious  sunshine. 

We  gather  that  she  was  the  only  child  of  a  very  rich 
Venetian  nobleman,  whose  palace,  Belmont,  stood  upon  some 


342  The  Merchant  of  Venice. 

lovely  promontory  between  Venice  and  Trieste,  overlooking 
the  blue  Adriatic  Sea,  — "  such  a  scene  as  we  often  see  in 
one  of  Claude's  or  Poussin's  Elysian  landscapes."  Here  she 
grew  up,  educated  by  her  father  in  all  that  would  best  fit  her 
for  the  responsibilities  of  heiress-hood.  Her  father's  palace, 
while  he  lived,  was  filled  with  the  noblest  guests.  She  saw  men 
rather  than  women,  and  was  familiar  with  the  best  of  them. 
One  struck  her  maiden  fancy,  —  one  gayer,  brighter  than  the 
rest,  —  the  handsome  young  Bassanio.  But  her  father  seems 
to  have  been  mistrustful  of  his  character ;  he  dared  not  favor 
his  suit,  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  oppose  it.  In  this  strait, 
being,  as  we  are  expressly  told,  a  man  of  piety,  he  appears  to 
have  submitted  his  case  to  the  judgment  of  God.  He  made 
the  question  of  Portia's  marriage  hang  on  the  choice  that 
might  be  made  among  three  caskets.  He  barred  frivolous 
competition  by  exacting  a  promise  that  the  suitor  who  lost 
would  wed  no  other  lady,  and  left  the  selection  of  his 
daughter's  husband  to  the  decision  of  the  Lord. 

Among  the  guests  who  had  frequented  Belmont,  and  had 
shared  in  the  task  of  educating  Portia,  was  her  cousin 
Doctor  Bellario,  the  wisest  lawyer  in  Italy.  Portia  evidently 
looks  up  to  him  as  her  master.  It  is  probable  he  taught  her 
law,  —  at  least  its  rudiments,  —  which  every  woman  who  owns 
property  ought  to  understand.  Thus,  when  the  play  opens, 
we  find  Portia  living  without  a  guardian  at  Belmont.  Her 
companion  and  lady-in-waiting  is  Nerissa,  —  not  a  duenna, 
but  a  girl  a  little  older  than  herself;  her  major-domo  is  the 
faithful  Balthazar ;  and  her  servants  are  old  family  retainers, 
so  well  disciplined  by  their  late  master  that  they  can  be 
trusted  to  give  no  suitor  any  hint  as  to  the  casket  which 
contains  the  picture. 


The  Merchant  of  Venice,  343 

Act   I.     Scene  i. 

When  the  play  opens,  Antonio  is  conversing  in  a  street  of 
Venice  (or  rather,  I  suppose,  on  one  of  those  little  paved 
landing-places  which  lie  along  the  Grand  Canal  at  intervals) 
with  two  commonplace  friends,  Salarino  and  Salanio.  "  Any- 
tolerable  picture  of  Venice  will  show  us  some  spot  —  some 
grand  staircase,  or  shady  colonnade  —  where  we  may  fancy 
Antonio  standing  with  his  friends,  looking  down  on  the  de- 
ceitful waves  to  which  he  has  trusted  his  mercantile  honor 
and  his  fortunes.  Antonio's  first  words  suggest  the  standing 
puzzle  of  his  character,  which  gives  him  the  peculiar  fascina- 
tion belonging  to  anything  mysterious.  From  whence  comes 
the  gentle  melancholy  which  pervades  the  whole  nature  of 
this  prosperous  merchant,  this  true  gentleman,  so  worthy  in 
himself,  so  deeply  beloved  by  others?  Shakspeare  never 
explains  the  mystery,  so  we  may  imagine  something  in 
Antonio's  antecedents  to  account  for  his  gravity,  or  else  a 
natural  sad  turn  of  mind  which  only  now  and  then  becomes 
manifest  to  his  associates.  He  is  never  bitter  or  morose,  but 
a  certain  stately  sadness  rests  upon  him,  making  him  appear 
years  older  than  his  lively  friends.  Yet  it  is  mostly  in  relation 
to  his  friends  that  we  see  anything  of  Antonio.  He  stands 
as  the  representative  of  friendship  ii)  its  highest  form  of  un- 
selfish devotion,  even  while  suggesting  all  sorts  of  interesting 
possibilities  as  to  his  own  past  and  future." 

In  his  first  speech  he  complains  of  a  vague  sadness,  —  a 
sadness  occasioned,  I  think,  partly  by  temperament,  partly  by 
presentiments,  and  in  part  by  a  sense  of  mercantile  responsi- 
bility. Antonio's  temperament  may  be  a  little  like  Hamlet's. 
He  may  have  by  nature  the  ill  gift  of  looking  on  both  sides 
of  things,  a  gift  which  if  it  does  not  paralyze  the  power  of 


344  ^'^^  Merchant  of  Venice. 

action  (as  in  Hamlet)  often  makes  its  possessor,  when  he  has 
acted,  restless  and  miserable.  Salarino  and  Salanio  are  trying 
to  enliven  the  rich  man  by  allusions  to  his  riches. 

Antonio.     In  sooth,  I  know  not  why  I  am  so  sad. 
It  wearies  me ;  you  say  it  wearies  you  ; 
But  how  I  caught  it,  found  it,  or  came  by  it, 
What  stuff 't  is  made  of,  whereof  it  is  born, 
I  am  to  learn  ; 

And  such  a  want-wit  sadness  makes  of  me, 
That  I  have  much  ado  to  know  myself. 

Salarino.     Your  mind  is  tossing  on  the  ocean  ; 
There,  where  your  argosies  with  portly  sail,  — 
Like  signiors  and  rich  burghers  of  the  flood, 
Or,  as  it  were  the  pageants  of  the  sea,  — 
Do  overpeer  the  petty  traffickers, 
That  curt'sy  to  them,  do  them  reverence. 
As  they  fly  by  them  with  their  woven  wings. 

Salanio.     Believe  me,  sir,  had  I  such  venture  forth, 
The  better  part  of  my  aifections  would 
Be  with  my  hopes  abroad.     I  should  be  still 
Plucking  the  grass,  to  know  where  sits  the  wind ; 
Peering  in  maps,  for  ports,  and  piers,  and  roads ; 
And  every  object  that  might  make  me  fear 
Misfortune  to  my  ventures,  out  of  doubt, 
Would  make  me  sad. 

Salarino.  My  wind,  cooling  my  broth, 

Would  blow  me  to  an  ague,  when  I  thought 
What  harm 'a  wind  too  great  might  do  at  sea. 
Then  tell  not  me,  I  know  Antonio 
Is  sad  to  think  upon  his  merchandise. 

Antonio.     Believe  me,  no.     I  thank  my  fortune  for  it, 
My  ventures  are  not  in  one  bottom  trusted, 
Nor  to  one  place  ;  nor  is  my  whole  estate 
Upon  the  fortune  of  this  present  year. 
Therefore  my  merchandise  makes  me  not  sad. 

Salanio.     Why,  then  you  are  in  love  ! 

Antojtio.  Fie  !    Fie  ! 

Salanio.     Not  in  love,  neither  ?   Then  let 's  say  you  are  sad 
Because  you  are  not  merry.    And  't  were  as  easy 


The  Merchant  of  Venice.  345 

For  you  to  laugh,  and  leap,  and  say  you  are  merry 

Because  you  are  not  sad. 

Here  comes  Bassanio,  your  most  noble  kinsman, 

Gratiano,  and  Lorenzo.     Fare  you  well. 

We  leave  you  now  in  better  company. 

Salarino.     I  would  have  stayed  till  I  had  made  you  merry» 
If  worthier  friends  had  not  prevented  me. 

Then  Antonio,  when  he  has  poUtely  answered  "  Your  worth 
is  very  dear  in  my  regard,"  adds,  sotto  voce,  with  appreciation 
of  their  true  character,  — 

I  take  it  your  own  business  calls  on  you, 
And  you  embrace  the  occasion  to  depart. 

They  overhear  this  speech,  apparently,  and  though  it  suits 
them  to  take  no  notice  of  it,  they  are  naturally  put  out  of 
countenance  by  the  observation.  It  is  one  of  the  penalties 
attached  to  the  possession  of  riches,  that  the  rich  man  is  apt 
to  see  the  worst  side  of  human  nature ;  and  thence  he  grows 
mistrustful.  He  can,  if  he  will,  do  something  to  make  life 
easier  to  almost  every  one  who  approaches  him.  His 
associates  cannot  help  remembering  this,  and  hoping  that  he 
may  think  of  dropping  for  their  good  some  crumb  from  his 
abundance.  The  habit  of  American  rich  men  is  to  be  so 
very  generous  that  it  puts  them  at  a  disadvantage  in  society. 
Then  too,  the  American  "rich  man"  has  enormously 
more  "spending  money"  than  rich  men  have  abroad,  es- 
pecially those  who  have  been  born  to  landed  interests  and 
obligations.  It  makes  one  almost  as  sad  as  Antonio  to  see 
how  rich  men  are  "  put  upon  "  in  this  country.  Every  one 
who  has  a  hobby  thinks  the  richest  man  he  knows  should 
mount  it  too.  Innumerable  fellow-beings  with  their  various 
wants  "  do  not  see  why  "  the  rich  man  should  not  step  in 


346  The  Merchant  of  Venice. 

with  a  beneficent  supply.     Therefore  one  is  not  surprised  to 
hear  Gratiano,  the  merriest  man  in  Venice,  say  :  — 

Gratiano.     You  look  not  well,  Signior  Antonio  ; 
You  have  too  much  respect  upon  the  world ; 
They  lose  it  that  do  buy  it  with  much  care. 
Believe  me,  you  are  marvellously  changed. 

Antonio.     I  hold  the  world  but  as  the  world,  Gratiano ; 
A  stage,  where  every  man  must  play  a  part, 
And  mine  a  sad  one. 

Gratiano.  Let  me  play  the  fool : 

With  mirth  and  laughter  let  old  wrinkles  come  ; 
And  let  my  liver  rather  heat  with  wine, 
Than  my  heart  cool  with  mortifying  groans. 
Why  should  a  man,  whose  blood  is  warm  within, 
Sit  like  his  grandsire  cut  in  alabaster .? 
Sleep  when  he  wakes  ?  and  creep  into  the  jaundice 
By  being  peevish  "i    I  tell  thee  what,  Antonio,  — 
I  love  thee,  and  it  is  my  love  that  speaks,  — 
.  There  are  a  sort  of  men  whose  visages 
Do  cream  and  mantle  like  a  standing  pond ; 
And  do  a  wilful  stillness  entertain, 
With  purpose  to  be  dressed  in  an  opinion 
Of  wisdom,  gravity,  profound  conceit,  — 
As  who  should  say,  "  I  am  Sir  Oracle, 
And  when  I  ope  my  lips,  let  no  dog  bark  !  " 
O,  my  Antonio,  I  do  know  of  these, 
That  therefore  only  are  reputed  wise, 
For  saying  nothing ;  who,  I  am  very  sure. 
If  they  should  speak,  would  almost  damn  those  ears 
Which,  hearing  them,  would  call  their  brothers  fools. 
I  '11  tell  thee  more  of  this  another  time : 
But  fish  not  with  this  melancholy  bait, 
For  this  fool's  gudgeon,  this  opinion. 
Come,  good  Lorenzo.     Fare  ye  well,  a  while; 
I  '11  end  my  exhortation  after  dinner. 

When  Gratiano  and  Lorenzo  take  their  leave  Antonio  turns 
sadly  to  his  friend  and  kinsman,  with  the  question,  — 


The  Merchant  of  Venice,  347 

Is  that  anything,  now  ? 

Bassanio.  Gratiano  speaks  an  infinite  deal  of  nothing,  more  than 
any  man  in  Venice.  His  reasons  are  as  two  grains  of  wheat  hid 
in  two  bushels  of  chaff ;  you  shall  seek  all  day  to  find  them,  and  when 
you  have  them,  they  are  not  worth  the  search. 

We  quite  agree  with  Bassanio's  estimate  of  Gratiano 's 
volubility,  albeit  Gratiano  has  a  great  deal  more  than  two 
grains  of  sense  in  his  bushel  of  chaff.  He  has  been  simply 
arguing  on  false  premises.  What  he  says  does  not  in  the 
least  apply  to  Antonio.  Some  one  says  his  lecture  to  Antonio 
in  this  place  recalls  Landseer's  "  Dignity  and  Impudence." 

An  application  to  a  rich  kinsman  for  money  is  not  gen- 
erally a  graceful  or  becoming  proceeding  ;  but  Bassanio  does 
it  without  impairing  his  dignity  or  gentlemanhood.  It  is 
harder  for  a  nature  of  high  order  to  ask  a  favor  than  to  grant 
one,  but  hardest  of  all  to  ask  it  without  loss  of  self-respect, 
and  without  too  much  apology.  Bassanio  is  perfect.  It 
does  not  usually  dispose  us  in  favor  of  a  man  that  he 
avowedly  seeks  to  mend  his  broken  fortunes  by  marrying  an 
heiress,  and  yet  we  do  not  east  this  up  against  Bassanio. 
He  has  seen  Portia,  and  loved  her,  and  appreciates  her; 
that  is  what  takes  him  to  Belmont,  though  he  urges  only  the 
money  consideration  on  his  mercantile  friend. 

Antojtio.     Well,  tell  me  now,  what  lady  is  this  same 
To  whom  you  swore  a  secret  pilgrimage, 
That  you  to-day  promised  to  tell  me  of? 

Bassanio.     'T  is  not  unknown  to  you,  Antonio, 
How  much  I  have  disabled  mine  estate, 
By  something  showing  a  more  swelling  port 
Than  my  faint  means  would  grant  continuance. 
Nor  do  I  now  make  moan  to  be  abridged 
From  such  a  noble  rate  ;  but  my  chief  care 
Is,  to  come  fairly  off  from  the  great  debts 


348  The  Merchant  of  Venice. 

Wherein  my  time,  something  too  prodigal, 
Hath  left  me  gaged.     To  you,  Antonio, 
I  owe  the  most,  in  money,  and  in  love ; 
And  from  your  love  I  have  a  warranty 
To  unburthen  all  my  plots  and  purposes. 
How  to  get  clear  of  all  the  debts  I  owe. 

Antonio.     I  pray  you,  good  Bassanio,  let  me  know  it ; 
And  if  it  stand,  as  you  yourself  still  do, 
Within  the  eye  of  honor,,  be  assured, 
My  purse,  my  person,  my  extremest  means, 
Lie  all  unlocked  to  your  occasions. 

Bassanio.     In  my  school-days,  when  I  had  lost  one  shaft, 
I  shot  his  fellow  of  the  self-same  flight 
The  self-same  way,  with  more  advised  watch. 
To  find  the  other  forth  ;  and  by  adventuring  both, 
I  oft  found  both.     I  urge  this  childhood  proo^ 
Because  what  follows  is  pure  innocence. 
I  owe  you  much  ;  and,  like  a  wilful  youth, 
That  which  I  owe  is  lost ;  but  if  you  please 
To  shoot  another  arrow  that  self  way 
Which  you  did  shoot  the  first,  I  do  not  doubt, 
As  I  will  watch  the  aim,  or  to  find  both 
Or  bring  your  latter  hazard  back  again, 
And  thankfully  rest  debtor  for  the  first 

Antonio.     You  know  me  well ;  and  herein  spend  but  time, 
To  wind  about  my  love  with  circumstance  ; 
And,  out  of  doubt,  you  do  me  now  more  wrong. 
In  making  question  of  my  uttermost. 
Than  if  you  had  made  waste  of  all  I  have ; 
Then  do  but  say  to  me  what  I  should  do 
That  in  your  knowledge  may  by  me  be  done, 
And  I  am  pressed  unto  it.     TherefdVe,  speak. 

Bassanio.     In  Belmont  is  a  lady,  richly  left ; 
And  she  is  fair,  and,  fairer  than  that  word. 
Of  wondrous  virtues.     Sometimes  from  her  eyes 
I  did  receive  fair,  speechless  messages. 
Her  name  is  Portia,  nothing  undervalued 
To  Cato's  daughter,  —  Brutus'  Portia. 
Nor  is  the  wide  world  ignorant  of  her  worth  ; 
For  the  four  winds  blow  in  from  every  coast 


The  Merchant  of  Venice,  349 

Renowned  suitors  ;  and  her  sunny  locks 

Hang  on  her  temples  like  a  golden  fleece, 

Which  makes  her  seat  of  Belmont  Colchos'  strand, 

And  many  Jasons  come  in  quest  of  her. 

O,  my  Antonio,  had  I  but  the  means 

To  hold  a  rival  place  with  one  of  them, 

I  have  a  mind  presages  me  such  thrift 

That  I  should,  questionless,  be  fortunate. 

Antonio.    Thou  know'st  that  all  my  fortunes  are  at  sea  ; 
Nor  have  I  money,  nor  commodity 
To  raise  a  present  sum.     Therefore  go  forth ; 
Try  what  my  credit  can  in  Venice  do. 
Thai  shall  be  racked,  e'en  to  the  uttermost, 
To  furnish  thee  to  Belmont,  to  fair  Portia, 
Go,  presently  inquire,  and  so  will  I, 
Where  money  is,  and  I  no  question  make 
To  have  it  of  my  trust,  or  for  my  sake. 

Scene  2. 
We  next  stand  within  the  marble  halls  of  Belmont,  where 
Portia,  the  rich  woman,  is  (like  Antonio,  the  rich  man)  pro- 
fessing herself  melancholy.  Nerissa,  her  lady-in-waiting,  is 
quick-witted,  kindly,  and  deeply  attached  to  the  sweet  heiress, 
but  throughout  we  feel  her  inferiority  of  nature  to  be  greater 
than  her  inferiority  of  position.  Hear  them  talking  to  one 
another.  Nerissa  is  trying  much  the  same  style  of  comfort 
as  Salarino  and  Salanio  have  tried  with  Antonio. 

Portia.  By  my  troth,  Nerissa,  my  little  body  is  aweary  of  this  great 
world. 

Nerissa.  You  would  be,  sweet  madam,  if  your  miseries  were  in  the 
same  abundance  as  your  good  fortunes.  And  yet,  for  aught  I  see,  they 
are  as  sick  that  surfeit  with  too  much,  as  they  that  starve  with 
nothing. 

Portia.     Good  sentences,  and  well  pronounced. 

Nerissa.     They  would  be  better  if  well  followed. 

Portia.  If  to  do  were  as  easy  as  to  know  what  were  good  to  do, 
chapels  had  been  churches,  and  poor  men's  cottages  princes'  palaces. 


350  The  Merchant  of  Venice. 

It  is  a  good  divine  that  follows  his  own  instructions.  I  can  easier 
teach  twenty  what  were  good  to  be  done  than  be  one  of  the  twenty 
to  follow  mine  own  teaching.  But  this  reasoning  is  not  in  the  fash- 
ion to  choose  me  an  husband.  O,  me!  —  the  word  choose!  I  may 
neither  choose  whom  I  would  nor  refuse  whom  I  dislike.  So  is 
the  will  of  a  living  daughter  curbed  by  the  will  of  a  dead  father. 
Is  it  not  hard,  Nerissa,  that  I  cannot  choose  one,  nor  refuse 
none? 

Nerissa.  Your  father  was  ever  virtuous,  and  holy  men  at  their 
death  have  good  inspirations.  Therefore  the  lottery  that  he  hath 
devised  in  these  three  chests  of  gold,  silver,  and  lead  (whereof  who 
chooses  his  meaning  chooses  you),  will  no  doubt  never  be  chosen  by 
any  rightly,  but  one  who  you  shall  rightly  love.  But  what  warmth  is 
there  in  your  affection  towards  any  of  these  princely  suitors  that  are 
already  come  ? 

Portia.  I  pray  thee,  over-name  them  ;  and  as  thou  namest  them  I 
will  describe  them ;  and  according  to  my  description  level  my 
affection. 

Nerissa.     First,  there  is  the  Neapolitan  Prince. 

Portia.  Ay,  that 's  a  colt  indeed,  for  he  doth  nothing  but  talk  of 
his  horse ;  and  he  makes  it  a  great  appropriation  to  his  own  good  parts 
that  he  can  shoe  him  himself. 

Nerissa.    Then  is  there  the  County  Palatine. 

Portia.  He  does  nothing  but  frown  ;  as  who  should  say,  "  An  if 
you  will  not  have  me,  choose  ; "  he  hears  merry  tales,  and  sr/iiles  not. 
I  fear  he  will  prove  the  weeping  philosopher  when  he  grows  old,  being 
so  full  of  unmannerly  sadness  in  his  youth.  I  had  rather  be  married 
to  a  death's  head  with  a*  bone  in  his  mouth,  than  to  either  of  these. 
God  defend  me  from  these  two  ! 

Nerissa.     How  say  you  by  the  French  lord.  Monsieur  Le  Bon  ? 

Portia.  God  made  him,  and  therefore  let  him  pass  for  a  man.  In 
truth,  I  know  it  is  a  sin  to  be  a  mocker ;  but  he  !  why,  he  hath  a  horse 
better  than  the  Neapolitan's ;  a  better  bad  habit  of  frowning  than 
the  Count  Palatine ;  he  is  every  man  in  no  man  ;  if  a  throstle  sing, 
he  falls  straight  a-capering  ;  he  will  fence  with  his  own  shadow. 
If  I  should  marry  him,  I  should  marry  twenty  husbands.  If  he 
would  despise  me,  I  would  forgive  him  ;  for  if  he  love  me  to  madness, 
I  shall  never  requite  him. 

Nerissa.  What  say  you  then  to  Falconbridge,  the  young  baron  of 
England  ? 


The  Merchant  of  Venice,  351 

Portia.  You  know,  I  say  nothing  to  him ;  for  he  understands  not 
me,  nor  I  him.  He  hath  neither  Latin,  French,  nor  Italian ;  and  you 
will  come  into  the  court  and  swear  that  I  have  a  poor  penny-worth  in 
the  English.  He  is  *a  proper  man's  picture.  But,  alas !  who  can  con- 
verse with  a  dumb  show  ?  How  oddly  he  is  suited !  I  think  he  bought 
his  doublet  in  Italy,  his  round  hose  in  France,  his  bonnet  in  Germany, 
and  his  behavior  everywhere. 

Nerissa.     What  think  you  of  the  Scottish  lord,  his  neighbor  ? 

Portia.  That  he  hath  a  neighborly  charity  in  him ;  for  he  borrowed 
a  box  of  the  ear  of  the  Englishman,  and  swore  he  would  pay  him  again 
when  he  was  able.  I  think  the  Frenchman  became  his  surety,  and 
sealed  under  for  another. 

Nerissa.  How  like  you  the  young  German,  the  Duke  of  Saxony's 
nephew  } 

Portia.  Very  vilely  in  the  morning,  when  he  is  sober ;  and  most 
vilely  in  the  afternoon  when  he  is  drunk.  When  he  is  best,  he  is  a  little 
worse  than  a  man ;  and  when  he  is  worst,  he  is  little  better  than  a 
beast ;  an  the  worst  fall  that  ever  fell,  I  hope  I  shall  make  shift  to  go 
without  him. 

Nerissa.  If  he  should  offer  to  choose,  and  choose  the  right  casket, 
you  should  refuse  to  perform  your  father's  will,  if  you  should  refuse  to 
accept  him. 

Portia.  Therefore,  for  fear  of  the  worst,  I  pray  thee,  set  a  deep 
glass  of  Rhenish  wine  on  the  contrary  casket ;  for  if  the  devil  be 
within,  and  that  temptation  without,  I  know  he  will  choose  it.  I  will 
do  anything,  Nerissa,  ere  I  will  be  married  to  a  spunge. 

Nerissa.  You  need  not  fear,  lady,  the  having  any  of  these  lords  ; 
they  have  acquainted  me  with  their  determinations  ;  which  is,  indeed, 
to  return  to  their  home,  and  to  trouble  you  with  no  more  suit ;  unless 
you  may  be  won  by  some  other  sort  than  your  father's  imposition, 
depending  on  the  caskets. 

Portia.  If  I  live  to  be  as  old  as  Sibylla,  I  will  die  as  chaste  as 
Diana,  unless  I  be  obtained  by  the  manner  of  my  father's  will.  I 
am  glad  this  parcel  of  wooers  are  so  reasonable  ;  for  there  is  not  one 
among  them  but  I  dote  on  his  very  absence,  and  I  pray  God  grant 
them  a  fair  departure. 

Nerissa.  Do  you  not  remember,  lady,  in  your  father's  time,  a  Ven- 
etian, a  scholar,  and  a  soldier,  that  came  hither  in  company  of  the 
Marquis  of  Montferrat  ? 

Portia.    Yes,  yes,  it  was  Bassanio ;  as  I  think,  so  was  he  called. 


352  The  Merchant  of  Venice. 

Nerissa.  True,  madam ;  he,  of  all  the  men  that  ever  my  foolish 
eyes  looked  upon,  was  the  best  deserving  a  fair  lady. 

Portia.  I  remember  him  well ;  and  I  remember  him  worthy  of  thy 
praise. 

How  charming  is  Portia's  description  of  her  Neapolitan, 
Rhineland,  French,  English,  Scottish,  and  German  suitors. 
How  their  national  peculiarities  are  touched  off  in  a  few  words, 
especially  those  of  the  Englishman.  Surely  we  know  him,  — 
especially  such  of  us  as  have  lived  upon  the  European  Con- 
tinent (and  we  see  him  sometimes  in  our  own  country, 
although  here  he  has  the  advantage  of  being  able  to  speak 
the  national  tongue),  —  a  handsome  man,  conspicuous  by 
his  ill-assorted  dress,  with  a  dash  of  behavior  "  caught  up 
from  everywhere,"  prompt  with  his  fists,  but  a  laggard  with 
his  tongue.  The  catalogue  is  interrupted  by  the  necessity  of 
going  forward  to  receive  more  suitors. 

Scene  3. 

In  this  scene  we  return  to  Venice,  and  see  Bassanio  and 
the  usurer  Shylock  in  conference  concerning  the  loan  of  three 
thousand  ducats,  to  be  made  in  Antonio's  name  for  Bassanio's 
uses.  Though  a  scholar  and  soldier,  well  born  and  well- 
bred,  Bassanio  has  to  keep  a  civil  tongue  in  his  head  while 
talking  to  Shylock,  —  nay,  he  even  asks  him  to  dine  with 
him. 

Shylock,  Three  thousand  ducats,  for  three  months,  and  Antonio 
bound. 

Bassanio.     Your  answer  to  that. 

Shylock.     Antonio  is  a  good  man 

Bassanio.     Have  you  heard  any  imputation  to  the  contrary  ? 

Shylock.  Ho  1  no,  no,  no,  no  ;  my  meaning  in  saying  he  is  a  good 
man,  is  to  have  you  understand  me  that  he  is  sufficient.    Yet  his 


The  Merchant  of  Veiiice.  353 

means  are  in  supposition.  He  hath  an  argosy  bound  to  Tripolis, 
another  to  the  Indies.  I  understand,  moreover,  upon  the  Rialto,  he 
hath  a  third  in  Mexico,  a  fourth  in  England,  — and  other  ventures  he 
hath  squandered  abroad.  But  ships  are  but  boards,  sailors  but  men ; 
there  be  land-rats,  and  water-rats,  water-thieves,  and  land-thieves,  —  I 
mean,  pirates ;  and  then,  there  is  the  peril  of  waters,  winds,  and  rocks. 
The  man  is,  notwithstanding,  sufficient.  Three  thousand  ducats, — 
I  think  I  may  take  his  bond. 

Bassanio.     Be  assured  you  may. 

Shylock.     I  will  be  assured  I  may ;  and  that  I  may  be  assured,  I 
will  bethink  me.     May  I  speak  with  Antonio  "i 
Bassanio.     If  it  please  you  to  dine  with  us. 

Shylock,  Yes,  to  smell  pork  ;  to  eat  of  the  habitation  which  your 
prophet,  the  Nazarite,  conjured  the  devil  into.  I  will  buy  with  you, 
sell  with  you,  talk  with  you,  walk  with  you,  and  so  following;  but  I 
will  not  eat  with  you,  drink  with  you,  nor  pray  with  you.  What  news 
on  the  Rialto  .-* —  Who  is  he  comes  here  "i 

\Enter  Antonio. 
Bassanio.     This  is  Signior  Antonio. 

Shylock  [aside].     How  like  a  fawning  publican  he  looks  ! 
I  hate  him,  for  he  is  a  Christian ; 
But  more,  for  that,  in  low  simplicity, 
He  lends  out  money  gratis,  and  brings  down 
The  rate  of  usance  here  with  us  in  Venice. 
If  I  can  catch  him  once  upon  the  hip,  , 

I  will  feed  fat  the  ancient  grudge  I  bear  him. 
He  hates  our  sacred  nation  ;  and  he  rails, 
Even  there  where  merchants  most  do  congregate 
,  On  me,  my  bargains,  and  my  well-won  thrift. 
Which  he  calls  interest.     Cursed  be  my  tribe 
If  I  forgive  him  ! 
Bassanio. i  Shylock,  do  you  hear  ? 

Shylock.     I  am  debating  of  my  present  store ; 
And,  by  the  near  guess  of  my  memory, 
I  cannot  instantly  raise  up  the  gross 
Of  full  three  thousand  ducats.     What  of  that  ? 
Tubal,  a  wealthy  Hebrew  of  my  tribe, 
Will  furnish  me.     But  soft ;  how  many  months 
Do  you  desire  ? 

23 


354  ^^^  Merchant  of  Venice, 

Here  he  turns  suddenly  to  Antonio,  whose  entrance  he  has 

affected  not  to  perceive,  being  absorbed  in  calculation,  and 

greets  him  fawningly,  — 

Rest  you  fair,  good  Signior. 
Your  worship  was  the  last  man  in  our  mouths. 

Antonio.     Shylock,  albeit  I  neither  lend  nor  borrow 
By  taking  nor  by  giving  of  excess, 
Yet,  to  supply  the  ripe  wants  of  my  friend, 
I  '11  break  a  custom.     [  To  Bassam'o.]     Is  he  yet  possessed 
How  much  you  would  .'' 

Shylock.  Ay,  ay  ;  three  thousand  ducats. 

Antonio.     And  for  three  months. 

Shylock.     I  had  forgot ;  three  months,  you  told  me  so. 
Well  then,  your  bond  ;  and-.— let  me  see.  .  .  . 
Three  thousand  ducats,  —  't  is  a  good  round  sum. 
Three  months  from  twelve,  then  let  me  see  the  rate. 

Antonio.     Well,  Shylock,  shall  we  be  beholden  to  you  ? 

Shylock.     Signior  Antonio,  many  a  time  and  oft, 
In  the  Rialto,  you  have  rated  me 
About  my  moneys  and  my  usances ; 
Still  have  I  borne  it  with  a  patient  shrug, 
For  sufferance  is  the  badge  of  all  our  tribe  ; 
You  call  me  misbeliever,  cut-throat,  dog. 
And  spit  upon  my  Jewish  gaberdine,  — 
And  all  for  use  of  that  which  is  mine  own. 
Well  then,  it  now  appears  you  need  my  help. 
Go  to,  then.     You  come  to  me  and  you  say, 
"  Shylock,  we  would  have  moneys."    You  say  so,  — 
You  that  did  void  your  rheum  upon  my  beard. 
And  foot  me,  as  you  spurn  a  stranger  cur 
Over  your  threshold  ;  moneys  is  your  suit.  ' 

What  shall  I  say  to  you  ?    Should  I  not  say 
"  Hath  a  dog  money  ?    Is  it  possible 
A  cur  can  lend  three  thousand  ducats  ?  "  or 
Shall  I  bend  low,  and  in  a  bondman's  key 
With  bated  breath,  and  whispering  humbleness. 
Say  this  ?  — 

"  Fair  sir,  you  spit  on  me  on  Wednesday  last, 
You  spurned  me  such  a  day  ;  another  time 


The  Merchant  of  Venice,  355 

You  called  me  —  dog  ;  and  for  these  courtesies 
I  '11  lend  you  thus  much  moneys." 

Antonio.     I  am  as  like  to  call  thee  so  again, 
To  spit  on  thee  again,  to  spurn  thee  too. 
If  thou  wilt  lend  this  money,  lend  it  not 
As  to  thy  friends  (for  when  did  friendship  take 
A  breed  for  barren  metal  of  his  friend  .-*) 
But  lend  it  rather  to  thine  enemy  ; 
Who  if  he  break,  thou  may'st  with  better  face 
Exact  the  penalty. 

Shylock.  Why,  look  you,  how  you  storm  ! 

I  would  be  friends  with  you,  and  have  your  love, 
Forget  the  shames  that  you  hav€  stained  me  with, 
Supply  your  present  wants,  and  take  no  doit 
Of  usance  for  my  moneys,  and  you  '11  not  hear  me  : 
This  is  kind  I  offer. 

Antonio.     This  were  kindness. 

Shylock.  This  kindness  will  I  show :  — 

Go  with  me  to  a  notary ;  seal  me  there 
Your  single  bond  ;  and,  in  a  merry  sport, 
If  you  repay  me  not  on  such  a  day, 
In  such  a  place,  such  sum  or  sums  as  are 
Expressed  in  the  condition,  let  the  forfeit 
Be  nominated  for  an  equal  pound 
Of  your  fair  flesh,  to  be  cut  off  and  taken 
In  what  part  of  your  body  pleaseth  me. 

Antonio.     Content,  in  faith :  I  '11  seal  to  such  a  bond, 
And  say  there  is  much  kindness  in  the  Jew. 

Bassanio.     You  shall  not  seal  to  such  a  bond  for  me  ; 
I  '11  rather  dwell  in  my  necessity. 

Antonio.     Why,  fear  not,  man  ;  I  will  not  forfeit  it; 
Within  these  two  months,  that 's  a  month  before 
This  bond  expires,  1  do  expect  return 
Of  thrice  three  times  the  value  of  this  bond. 

Shylock.    O  father  Abraham,  what  these  Christians  are ; 
Whose  own  hard  dealings  teaches  them  suspect 
The  thoughts  of  others !     Pray  you,  tell  me  this ; 
If  he  should  break  his  day,  what  should  I  gain 
By  the  exaction  of  the  forfeiture  .-* 
A  pound  of  man's  flesh,  taken  from  a  man, 


35 6  The  Merchant  of  Venice, 

Is  not  so  estimable^  profitable  neither, 

As  flesh  of  muttons,  beefs,  or  goats.     I  say,, 

To  buy  his  favor  I  extend  this  friendship. 

If  he  will  take  it,  so ;  if  not,  adieu  ; 

And  for  my  love,  I  pray  you,  wrong  me  not. 

Antonio,     Yes,  Shylock,  I  will  seal  unto  this  bond. 

Shy  lock.     Then  meet  me  forthwith  at  the  notary's ; 
Give  him  direction  for  this  merry  bond. 
And  I  will  go  and  purse  the  ducats  straight ;, 
See  to  my  house,  left  in  the  fearful  guard 
Of  an  unthrifty  knave ;  and  presently 
I  will  be  with  you.  \Ex^, 

Antonio.  Hie  thee,  gende  Jew. 

This  Hebrew  will  turn  Christian ;  he  grows  kind. 

Bassanio.     I  like  not  fair  terms,  and  a  villain's  mind. 

Antonio.     Come  on  \  in  this  there  can  be  no  dismay  j 
My  ships  come  home  a  month  before  the  day. 

We  here  see  why  Shylock  has  so  deep  a  hatred  to  Anto- 
nio, who  in  truth  treats  him  with  far  less  consideration  than 
he  receives  from  Bassanio^ 

It  is  curious,  in  looking  over  the  commentaries  of  the 
German  Gervinus  on  this  play,  to  see  how  the  German  hatred 
of  the  Jew  comes  out.  All  throu^gh  Russia,  Polish  Prussia, 
and  Eastern  Europe,  hatred  to  Jews,  even  in  this  day,  seems 
mediaeval.  Among  ourselves  there  are  plenty  of  great  and 
good  Jews,  —  Jews  who  by  their  extraordinary  intellectual 
activity  and  tribal  influence  rise  to  the  highest  places.  In- 
deed, it  is  said  that  the  real  balance  of  power  in  Europe  is 
now  in  the  hands  of  Jews,  Within  little  more  than  a  genera- 
tion, Disraeli  in  England  and  Cr^mieux  in  France  have  con- 
ducted the  destinies  of  those  two  great  countries.  Has  it 
ever  occurred  to  you  that  there  are  two  miracles  that  we 
can  witness  still  ?  We  can  see  the  Greek  taught  by  miracle 
to  the  Apostles  Peter,  James,  Jude,  and  John  (rude  fishermen 


The  Merchant  of  Venice,  357 

upon  an  inland  sea),  on  the  first  Whitsunday;  and  with 
our  own  eyes  we  can  witness  any  day  the  fulfilment  of  those 
prophecies  in  Deuteronomy  uttered  by  Moses  against  his 
countrymen,  preserved  by  Jews  themselves  for  the  strength- 
ening of  the  Church's  faith,  and  handed  down  to  us  un- 
garbled  from  generation  to  generation.  These  prophecies, 
besides  predicting  the  unnatural  position  occupied  for  eigh- 
teen centuries  by  the  most  intellectual  nation  upon  earth, 
with  all  its  wrongs  and  all  its  sorrows,  tell  us  how  utterly 
separate  among  all  nations  the  Jews  shall  remain.  It  is  not 
that  they  wish  to  be  so  separated ;  a  Jew  prefers  to  call  him- 
self an  American  or  an  Englishman ;  but  let  us  walk  down 
any  of  the  shopping  streets  of  a  great  city,  and  we  shall 
see  prophecy  fulfilled  in  the  faces  of  the  little  children  who 
play  outside  their  fathers'  clothing-stores,  while  looking  out 
for  customers.  It  is  the  standing  miracle,  —  the  one  we  may 
always  mentally  refer  to  whenever  a  doubt  of  the  inspiration 
of  the  Bible  flashes  across  our  minds.  Could  human  reason- 
ing have  foretold  this  isolation,  in  the  days  before  Greece 
was  civilized,  or  the  Fall  of  Troy  was  sung?  Was  it  capable 
of  predicting  that  the  nation  the  most  intellectual  should  be, 
by  common  consent  among  all  peoples,  the  most  degraded 
and  oppressed;  that  a  nation  dispersed  among  all  other 
nations  should  preserve  its  national  type,  when,  as  we  see 
among  ourselves,  in  two  generations  German,  Irish,  or 
Scotch  immigrants'  children  become  wholly  Americanized  — 
even  to  American  hands  and  feet  ?  Is  it  not  phenomenal  that 
the  nation  having  the  oldest  records  known  to  history,  —  the 
nation  that  preserved  for  our  use  all  that  is  most  cherished 
by  civilized  Christendom ;  that  gave  us  the  characters  we 
have  revered  from   infancy,   the   men   and  women  whose 


358  The  Merchant  of  Venice. 

stories  have  been  familiar  to  us  from  our  very  cradles ;  the 
people  our  Lord  loved  with  a  patriot's  love ;  the  nation  for 
whose  welfare  Saint  Paul  would  have  been  willing  to  risk  all 
that  was  most  dear  to  him ;  the  people  whom  we  believe 
shall  be  regrafted  into  the  Church,  and  held  in  highest 
honor  among  men,  —  that  this  nation  should  be  what  we 
know  the  Jews  have  been,  and  are,  and  that  all  this  should 
have  been  minutely  prophesied,  and  that  prophecy  preserved 
for  us  by  the  Jews  themselves  ?  What  is  this  but  a  miracle  ? 
We  may  remark  too  that  the  two  greatest  English  writers 
have  been  (may  I  say  ifispired?)  to  show  us  the  full  extent 
of  this  miracle  by  depicting  for  us  the  Jew,  —  Shakspeare 
in  Shylock,  and  Scott  in  Isaac  of  York. 

True  as  are  Shylock's  descriptions  of  the  way  Jews  were 
treated  (and  are  still  treated  in  Eastern  Europe),  great  men 
do  not  seem  to  have  been  sharers  in  that  wrong.  Shaks- 
peare's  scorn  of  Shylock  is  for  what  he  is  as  a  man;  he 
pleads  for  him  by  implication  as  a  Jew ;  Scott's  view  is  the 
same ;  Dante  never  spake  one  word  against  the  Jews,  though 
he  lived  in  mediaeval  Italy ;  Charlemagne  confided  in  them  ; 
and  Cromwell,  contrary  to  the  spirit  of  his  times,  permitted 
them  to  settle  freely  in  Puritan  England. 

Act  II.  Scene  i. 
We  must  pass  over  the  scene  concerning  the  Prince  of 
Morocco,  the  worthiest  of  Portia's  princely  suitors,  and  I 
fear  we  must  also  omit  that  delightful  comic  soliloquy  in  the 
second  scene,  where  Launcelot  Gobbo  debates  within  himself 
whether  he  can  in  conscience  run  from,  or  remain  with 
the  Jew  his  master.  Just  as  he  has  decided  to  break  his 
engagement,  his  old  father  comes  in,  and  does  not  recognize 


The  Merchant  of  Venice,  359 

his  loutish  son  in  the  smart  Venetian  valet,  who  looks  to 
him  like  a  gentleman.  I  think  that  only  those  who  have 
seen  this  scene  played  by  appreciative  actors  can  estimate 
its  full  effect. 

Gobbo.  Master,  young  man,  you,  I  pray  you  ;  which  is  the  way  to 
master  Jew's  ? 

Laimcelot  [aside].  O  heavens,  this  is  my  true  begotten  father !  — 
who,  being  more  than  sand-blind,  high-gravel  blind,  knows  me  not ; 
I  will  try  conclusions  with  him. 

Gobbo.  Master,  young  gentleman,  I  pray  you,  which  is  the  way  to 
master  Jew's  ? 

Launcelot.  Turn  up  on  your  right  hand  at  the  next  turning,  but  at 
the  next  turning  of  all,  on  your  left ;  marry,  at  the  very  next  turning, 
turn  of  no  hand,  but  turn  down  indirectly  to  the  Jew's  house. 

Gobbo.  By  God's  sonties,  't  will  be  a  hard  way  to  hit ;  can  you  tell  me 
whether  one  Launcelot,  that  dwells  with  him,  dwell  with  him,  or  no  ? 

Launcelot.  Talk  you  of  young  master  Launcelot  ?  Mark  me  now 
[aside]  ;  now  will  I  raise  the  waters.  Talk  you  of  young  master 
Launcelot  ? 

Gobbo.  No  master,  sir,  but  a  poor  man's  son  ;  his  father,  though  I 
say  it,  is  an  honest  exceeding  poor  man,  and,  God  be  thanked,  well  to 
live. 

Launcelot.  Well,  let  his  father  be  what  he  will,  we  talk  of  young 
master  Launcelot. 

Gobbo.     Your  worship's  friend,  and  Launcelot,  sir. 

Launcelot.  But  I  pray  you  ergo,  old  man,  ergo,  I  beseech  you  ; 
talk  you  of  young  master  Launcelot. 

Gobbo.     Of  Launcelot,  an  't  please  your  mastership. 

Launcelot.  Ergo,  master  Launcelot ;  talk  not  of  master  Launcelot, 
father  ;  for  the  young  gentleman  (according  to  fates  and  destinies,  and 
such  odd  sayings ;  the  sisters  three,  and  such  branches  of  learning)  is, 
indeed,  deceased ;  or,  as  you  would  say,  in  plain  terms,  gone  to  heaven. 

Gobbo.  Marry,  God  forbid !  the  boy  was  the  very  staff  of  my  age, 
my  very  prop. 

Launcelot.  Do  I  look  like  a  cudgel,  or  a  hovel-post,  a  staff,  or  a 
prop  .?     Do  you  know  me,  father  ? 

Gobbo.  Alack  the  day,  I  know  you  not,  young  gentleman ;  but,  I 
pray  you,  tell  me,  is  my  boy  (God  rest  his  soul  I)  alive,  or  dead.? 


360  The  Merchant  of  Venice. 

Launcelot.     Do  you  not  know  me,  father  ? 

Gobbo.     Alack,  sir,  I  am  sand-blind,  I  know  you  not. 

Launcelot.  Nay,  indeed,  if  you  had  your  eyes,  you  might  fail  of  the 
knowing  me  ;  it  is  a  wise  father  that  knows  his  own  child ;  well,  old 
man,  I  will  tell  you  news  of  your  son.  Give  me  your  blessing ;  truth 
will  come  to  light ;  murder  cannot  be  hid  long,  a  man's  son  may ;  but, 
in  the  end,  truth  will  out. 

Gobbo.  Pray  you,  sir,  stand  up  ;  I  am  sure  you  are  not  Launcelot, 
my  boy. 

Launcelot,  Pray  you,  let 's  have  no  more  fooling  about  it,  but  give 
me  your  blessing ;  I  am  Launcelot,  your  boy  that  was,  your  son  that 
is,  your  child  that  shall  be. 

Gobbo.     I  cannot  think  you  are  my  son. 

Launcelot.  I  know  not  what  I  shall  think  of  that :  but  I  am 
Launcelot,  the  Jew's  man  ;  and,  I  am  sure,  Margery,  your  wife,  is  ray 
mother. 

Gobbo.  Her  name  is  Margery,  indeed ;  I  '11  be  sworn,  if  thou  be 
Launcelot,  thou  art  mine  own  flesh  and  blood.  I>ord  worshipped  might 
he  be !  what  a  beard  hast  thou  got  I  thou  hast  got  more  hair  on  thy 
chin  than  Dobbin  my  thill-horse  has  on  his  tail. 

Launcelot.  It  should  seem  then,  that  Dobbin's  tail  grows  back- 
ward ;  I  am  sure  he  had  more  hair  on  his  tail  than  I  have  on  my  face, 
when  I  last  saw  him. 

Gobbo.  Lord,  how  art  thou  changed !  how  dost  thou  and  thy 
master  agree  .?     I  have  brought  him  a  present ;  how  'gree  you  now  .'' 

Launcelot.  Well ;  well ;  but  for  mine  own  part,  as  I  have  set  up 
my  rest  to  run  away,  so  I  would  not  rest  till  I  have  run  some  ground. 
My  master  's  a  very  Jew ;  give  him  a  present  ?  give  him  a  halter !  I 
am  famished  in  his  service.  You  may  tell  every  finger  I  have  with 
my  ribs.  Father,  I  am  glad  you  are  come.  Give  me  your  present  to 
one  Master  Bassanio,  who  indeed  gives  rare  new  liveries.  Oh,  rare 
fortune,  here  comes  the  man ;  to  him,  father ! 

They  proffer  their  suit  and  their  present  of  doves  to  Bas- 
sanio, who  readily  accepts  Launcelot,  and  orders  him  the 
desired  new  suit  of  "  rare  livery." 

Next  we  see  Gratiano  begging  Bassanio  to  take  him  with 
him  to  Belmont ;  one  understands  Bassanio's  spendthriftness, 
for  he  never  can  refuse  a  request  from  anybody.  ^ 


The  Merchant  of  Venice,  361 

Gratiano.     I  have  a  suit  to  you. 

Bassanio.  You  have  obtained  it. 

Gratiatto.    You  must  not  deny  me  ;  I  must  go  with  you  to  Belmont. 

Bassanio.     Why  then,  you  must ;  but  hear  thee,  Gratiano ; 
Thou  art  too  wild,  too  rude,  and  bold  of  voice ; 
Parts,  that  become  thee  happily  enough, 
And  in  such  eyes  as  ours  appear  not  faults ; 
But  where  thou  art  not  known,  why,  "there  they  show 
vSomething  too  liberal.     Pray  thee,  take  pain 
To  allay  with  some  cold  drops  of  modesty 
Thy  skipping  spirit ;  lest,  through  thy  wild  behavior, 
I  be  misconstrued  in  the  place  I  go  to, 
And  lose  my  hopes. 

Gratiano.  Signior  Bassanio,  hear  me  : 

If  I  do  not  put  on  a  sober  habit, 
Talk  with  respect,  and  swear  but  now  and  then, 
Wear  prayer-books  in  my  pocket,  look  demurely, — 
Nay  more,  while  grace  is  saying,  hood  mine  eyes 
Thus  with  my  hat,  and  sigh,  and  say,  amen,  — 
Use  all  the  observance  of  civility. 
Like  one  well  studied  in  a  sad  ostent 
To  please  his  grandam,  —  never  trust  me  more. 

Bassanio.     Well,  we  shall  see  your  bearing. 

Gratiano.     Nay,  but  I  bar  to-night ;  you  shall  not  gage  me 
By  what  we  do  to-night. 

Bassanio.  No,  that  were  pity ; 

I  would  entreat  you  rather  to  put  on 
Your  boldest  suit  of  mirth,  for  we  have  friends 
That  purpose  merriment ;  but  fare  you  well, 
I  have  some  business. 

Gratiano.     And  I  must  to  Lorenzo,  and  the  rest ; 
But  we  will  visit  you  at  supper-time.  [Exeunt. 

Scene  3. 
In  this  play  we  have  three  lovers,  and  three  ladies,  —  Portia 
and  Bassanio ;  Jessica  and  Lorenzo ;  Nerissa  and  Gratiano. 
Jessica  one  would  think  {a priori)  could  not  be  charming; 
she  is  the  disobedient  daughter  of  a  fierce  old  usurer, 
brought  up  in  a  home  which  she  tells  us  was  a  hell,  —  among 


362  The  Merchant  of  Venice, 

all  that  was  sordid  and  unlovely  ;  and  yet  she  is  a  very  pearl ; 
dear,  too,  to  the  hearts  of  those  Baltimoreans  who  saw  her 
personated  in  private  theatricals  by  the  daughter  of  a  judge 
high  in  the  esteem  of  his  fellow-townsmen.  Alas  !  that  im- 
personation of  winning  lovely,  innocence  is  now  only  a 
memory.  There  is  a  soft  confidingness  in  Jessica  which 
would  lead  the  way  to  grief  if  Lorenzo  were  no  true  man ; 
and  she  seems  all  the  time  to  be  running  a  fearful  risk  in 
trusting  him  so  absolutely,  as  she  really  knows  but  little  of 
him.  Her  first  appearance  is  with  Launcelot,  her  father's 
serving-man. 

Jessica.     I  am  sorry  thou  wilt  leave  my  father  so  ; 

Our  house  is  hell,  and  thou,  a  merry  devil, 

Didst  rob  it  of  some  taste  of  tediousness. 

But  fare  thee  well  ;  there  is  a  ducat  for  thee. 

And,  Launcelot,  soon  at  supper  shalt  thou  see 

Lorenzo,  who  is  thy  new  master's  guest. 

Give  him  this  letter  ;  do  it  secretly, 

And  so  farewell ;  I  would  not  have  my  father 

See  me  talk  with  thee. 
Launcelot.     Adieu !  —  tears   exhibit    my  tongue.      Most  beautiful 
Pagan,  —  most  sweet  Jew  I     If  a  Christian  do  not  play  the  knave,  and 
get  thee,  I   am  much  deceived.     But  adieu !  these  foolish  drops  do 
somewhat  drown  my  manly  spirit.     Adieu  1  \Exit. 

Jessica.     Farewell,  good  Launcelot. 

Alack,  what  heinous  sin  is  it  in  me 

To  be  ashamed  to  be  my  father's  child  ! 

But  though  I  am  a  daughter  to  his  blood, 

I  am  not  to  his  manners.     O  Lorenzo, 

If  thou  keep  promise,  I  shall  end  this  strife ; 

Become  a  Christian,  and  thy  loving  wife.  \Exit. 

Scene  4. 

This  scene  shows  us  preparations  for  Bassanio's  bachelor 
banquet,  and  Lorenzo's  arrangements  for  carrying  off  Jessica. 


The  Merchant  of  Venice.  363 

Scene  5. 

Next  we  see  Shy  lock  going  forth  to*  Bassanio's  supper- 
party,  and  giving  Jessica  charge  of  his  keys  in  his  absence. 
Stewart  Newton,  a  Boston^  artist  of  great  promise,  who  died 
young,  as  he  was  rising  to  great  fame  in  England,  took  for 
the  subject  of  nearly  all  his  pictures  this  Jewish  Jessica. 
One  of  them  —  Jessica  demurely  receiving  from  her  father 
the  great  keys  —  is  well  known  and  very  celebrated. 

Shylock.    I  am  bid  forth  to  supper,  Jessica. 

There  are  my  keys.     But  wherefore  should  I  go .? 

I  am  not  bid  for  love  ;  they  flatter  me. 

But  yet  I  '11  go  in  hate,  to  feed  upon 

The  prodigal  Christian.     Jessica,  my  girl, 

Look  to  my  house.     I  am  right  loath  to  go ; 

There  is  some  ill  a  brewing  towards  my  rest, 

For  I  did  dream  of  money-bags  to-night. 
Launcelot.    I  beseech  you,  sir,  go,  my  young  master  doth  expect  your 
reproach. 

Shylock.     So  do  I  his. 

Lamtcelot.  And  they  have  conspired  together,  —  I  will  not  say 
you  shall  see  a  masque ;  but  if  you  do,  then  it  was  not  for  nothing  that 
my  nose  fell  a  bleeding  on  Black-Monday  last,  at  six  o'clock  i'  the 
morning,  falling  out  that  year  on  Ash  Wednesday  was  four  year  in 
the  afternoon. 

Shylock.    What !  are  there  masques }    Hear  you  me,  Jessica  ; 

Lock  up  my  doors ;  and  when  you  hear  the  drum, 

And  the  vile  squeaking  of  the  wry-necked  fife, 

Clamber  not  you  up  to  the  casements  then. 

Nor  thrust  your  head  into  the  public  street. 

To  gaze  on  Christian  fools  with  varnished  faces  : 

But  stop  my  house's  ears,  I  mean  my  casements ; 

Let  not  the  sound  of  shallow  foppery  enter 

My  sober  house.     By  Jacob's  staff,  I  swear, 

I  have  no  mind  of  feasting  forth  to-night ; 

But  I  will  go.     Go  you  before  me,  sirrah  ; 

Say  I  will  come. 


364  The  Merchant  of  Venice. 

Launcelot.  I  will  go  before,  sir. 

Mistress,  look  out  at  window,  for  all  this  ; 

Th&re  will  come  a  Christian  by, 
Will  be  worth  a  Jewess'  eye. 

\Exit  Launcelot. 

Shylock.     "What  says  that  fool  of^Hagar's  offspring,  ha  ? 

Jessica.     His  words  were,  Farewell,  mistress  ;  nothing  else. 

Shylock.     The  patch  is  kind  enough  ;  but  a  huge  feeder, 
Snail-slow  in  profit,  and  he  sleeps  by  day 
More  than  the  wild-cat ;  drones  hive  not  with  me  ; 
Therefore  I  part  with  him ;  and  part  with  him 
To  one  that  I  would  have  him  help  to  waste 
His  borrowed  purse.     Well,  Jessica,  go  in  ; 
Perhaps  I  will  return  immediately. 
Do  as  I  bid  you  ; 

Shut  doors  after  you :  "  Fast  bind,  fast  find,"  — 
A  proverb  never  stale  in  thrifty  mind.  [Exit. 

Jessica.     Farewell ;  and  if  my  fortune  be  not  crossed, 
I  have  a  father,  you  a  daughter,  lost.  \Exit. 

Launcelot's  proverbial  expression,  "  will  be  worth  a  Jewess' 
eye,"  contains  a  popular  reminiscence  of  those  frightful  days 
when  Jews  were  made  willing  to  ransom  their  eyes  and  teeth 
from  the  cruelty  of  Christians. 

Scene  6. 
In  the  sixth  scene  we  see  pretty  Jessica  in  her  page's  dress, 
ashamed  of  her  false  manliness  far  more  than  of  carrying  off 
her  father's  jewels ;  there  is  nothing  Oriental  about  Jessica 
but  her  lavishness ;  her  very  expressions  are  mediaeval,  or 
drawn  from  classical  literature. 

Jessica.     Who  are  you  ?    Tell  me,  for  more  certainty, 
Albeit  I  '11  swear  that  I  do  know  your  tongue. 

Lorenzo.     Lorenzo,  and  thy  love. 

Jessica.     Lorenzo,  certain  ;  and  my  love,  indeed ; 
For  who  love  I  so  much  ?    And  now  who  knows. 
But  you,  Lorenzo,  whether  I  am  yours .'' 

Lorenzo.    Heaven,  and  thy  thoughts,  are  witness  that  thou  art. 


The  Merchant  of  Venice,  365 

Jessica.     Here,  catch  this  casket ;  it  is  worth  the  pains. 
I  am  glad  't  is  night,  you  do  not  look  on  me, 
For  I  am  much  ashamed  of  my  exchange* 
But  love  is  blind,  and  lovers  cannot  see 
The  pretty  follies  that  themselves  commit ; 
For  if  they  could,  Cupid  himself  would  blush 
To  see  me  thus  transformed  to  a  boy. 

Lorenzo.     Descend,  for  you  must  be  my  torch-bearer. 

Jessica.     What,  must  I  hold  a  candle  to  my  shames  .? 
They  in  themselves,  good  sooth,  are  too,  too  light. 
Why,  ^t  is  an  office  of  discovery,  love ; 
And  I  should  be  obscured. 

Lorenzo.  So  are  you,  sweet,. 

Even  in  the  lovely  garnish  of  a  boy. 
But  come  at  once  ; 

For  the  close  night  doth  play  the  run-away. 
And  we  are  stayed  for  at  Bassanio's  feast. 

Jessica.     I  will  make  fast  the  doors,  and  gild  myself 
With  some  more  ducats,,  and  be  with  you  straight. 

[Exit,  from  above. 

Gratiano.     Now,  by  my  hood,  a  Gentile,  and  no  Jew. 

Lorenzc^.     Beshrew  me,  but  I  love  her  heartily ; 
For  she  is  wise,  if  I  can  judge  of  her ; 
And  fair  she  is,  if  that  mine  eyes  be  true ; 
And  true  she  is,  as  she  hath  proved  herself  ; 
And  therefore,  like  herself,  wise,  fair  and  true, 
Shall  she  be  placed  in  my  constant  soul. 

Scene  7. 
Here  we  have  the  final  choice  of  the  Prince  of  Morocco. 
What  must  not  Portia  have  felt  as  he  laid  his  hand  upon  the 
leaden  casket  ?     Having  lost  he  takes  an  abrupt  leave  with 
a  sore  heart,  but  with  dignity. 

Scene  8. 
Salarino  and  Salanio  tell  of  Bassanio's  embarkation  for  his 
brief  voyage,  and  of  the  Jew's  despair  on  the  discovery  of 
his  loss. 


366  The  Merchant  of  Venice. 

Salanio.     I  never  heard  a  passion  so  confused, 
So  strange,  outrageous,  and  so  variable. 
As  the  dog  Jew  did,  utter  in  the  streets : 
"  My  daughter  I  —  O,  my  ducats  !  —  O,  my  daughter  ! 
Fled  with  a  Christian  !  —  O,  my  Christian  ducats  !  — 
Justice !  the  law !  my  ducats,  and  my  daughter ! 
A  sealed  bag,  two  sealed  bags  of  ducats, 
Of  double  ducats,  stolen  from  me  by  my  daughter  — 
And  jewels  ;  two  stones,  two  rich  and  precious  stones, 
Stolen  by  my  daughter  !  —  Justice  !  find  the  girl ! 
She  hath  the  stones  upon  her,  and  the  ducats  !  " 

Salarino.     Why,  all  the  boys  in  Venice  follow  him, 
Crying,  —  his  stones,  his  daughter,  and  his  ducats. 

Salanio.     Let  good  Antonio  look  he  keep  his  day, 
Or  he  shall  pay  for  this. 

Salarino.  Marry,  well  remembered. 

I  reasoned  with  a  Frenchman  yesterday. 
Who  told  me,  —  in  the  narrow  seas  that  part 
The  French  and  English,  there  miscarried 
A  vessel  of  our  country,  richly  fraught. 
I  thought  upon  Antonio  when  he  told  me, 
And  wished  in  silence  that  it  were  not  his. 

Salanio.     You  were  best  to  tell  Antonio  what  you  hear; 
Yet  do  not  suddenly,  for  it  may  grieve  him. 

Salarino.     A  kinder  gentleman  treads  not  the  earth. 
I  saw  Bassanio  and  Antonio  part. 
Bassanio  told  him  he  would  make  some  speed 
Of  his  return.     He  answered  :  "  Do  not  so  ; 
Slur  not  thy  business  for  my  sake,  Bassanio, 
But  stay  the  very  riping  of  the  time. 
And  for  the  Jew's  bond  which  he  hath  of  me. 
Let  it  not  enter  in  your  mind  of  love. 
Be  merry,  and  employ  your  chiefest  thoughts 
To  courtship,  and  such  fair  ostents  of  love 
As  shall  conveniently  become  you  there." 
And  even  there,  his  eye  being  big  with  tears, 
Turning  his  face,  he  put  his  hand  behind  him. 
And  with  affection,  wondrous  sensible, 
He  wrung  Bassanio's  hand,  and  so  they  parted. 

Salanio.    I  think  he  only  loves  the  world  for  him. 


The  Merchant  of  Venice,  367 

The  description  Salarino  gives  of  Antonio's  parting  with 
Bassanio  is  very  touching.  He  seems  to  feel  so  much 
sympathy  in  his  young  friend's  love,  that  (combined  with 
other  indications)  I  am  led  to  think  Antonio  was  a  widower. 

Scetie  9. 

The  Prince  of  Aragon  chooses  the  silver  casket.  Morocco 
departed  in  sorrow ;  the  Prince  of  Aragon  takes  his  leave 
with  subdued  indignation.  Just  as  he  departs,  and  Nerissa 
has  remarked  that  "wiving  goes  by  destiny,"  Bassanio's 
arrival  is  announced,  to  the  open  delight  of  Nerissa  and  the 
subdued  joy  of  Portia. 

Act  III.     Scene  i. 

We  are  back  again  in  Venice,  Salarino  and  Salanio  are 
talking  about  Antonio's  ship,  which  has  been  wrecked  upon 
the  English  Goodwin  Sands,  when  they  are  joined  by  Shylock. 
They  do  not  conceal  from  him  that  they  took  some  part  in 
his  daughter's  flight.  His  first  suspicion  had  fallen  on  this 
band  of  gay  young  gentlemen ;  he  had  searched  Bassanio's 
ship,  assisted  personally  by  the  Duke  himself,  and  Salarino, 
Salanio,  and  the  rest,  —  all  friends  to  Antonio. 

Salarino,  after  badgering  the  unhappy  and  bereaved  old 
man,  says  :  "  But  tell  us,  Shylock,  do  you  hear  whether 
Antonio  have  had  any  loss  at  sea,  or  no  ?  " 

Shylock.  There  I  have  another  bad  match,  —  a  bankrupt,  a  prodigal, 
who  dares  scarce  show  his  head  on  the  Rialto  ;  a  beggar,  that  used 
to  come  so  smug  upon  the  mart :  let  him  look  to  his  bond.  He  was 
wont  to  call  me  usurer,  —  let  him  look  to  his  bond.  He  was  wont  to 
lend  money  for  Christian  courtesy,  —  let  him  look  to  his  bond. 

Salarino.  Why,  I  am  sure,  if  he  forfeit,  thou  wilt  not  take  his  flesh ; 
What 's  that  good  for  ? 


368  The  Merchant  of  Venice, 

Shylock.  To  bait  fish  withal ;  if  it  will  feed  nothing  else,  it  will  feed 
my  revenge.  He  hath  disgraced  me,  and  hindered  me  of  half  a  million  ; 
laughed  at  my  losses,  mocked  at  my  gains,  scorned  my  nation,  thwarted 
my  bargains,  cooled  my  friends,  heated  mine  enemies  ;  and  what 's  his 
reason  ?  I  am  a  Jew.  Hath  not  a  Jew  eyes  .-*  hath  not  a  Jew  hands, 
organs,  dimensions^  senses,  affections,  passions  ?  —  fed  with  the  same 
food,  hurt  with  the  same  weapons,  subject  to  the  same  diseases,  healed 
by  the  same  means,  warmed  and  cooled  by  the  same  winter  and  sum- 
mer, as  a  Christian  is?  If  you  prick  us,  do  we  not  bleed  ?  if  you  tickle 
us,  do  we  not  laugh  ?  if  you  poison  us,  do  we  not  die  "i  and  if  you 
wrong  us,  shall  we  not  revenge  ?  If  we  are  like  you  in  the  rest,  we  will 
resemble  you  in  that.  If  a  Jew  wrong  a  Christian,  what  is  his  humility  ? 
Revenge.  If  a  Christian  wrong  a  Jew,  what  should  his  sufferance  be 
by  Christian  example  ?  Why,  revenge.  The  villany  you  teach  me,  I 
will  execute  ;  and  it  shall  go  hard  but  I  will  better  the  instruction. 

Here  the  two  gentlemen  are  called  away  to  speak  with 
Antonio;  and  Tubal,  a  second  Jewish  usurer,  enters  with 
news  of  Jessica.  So  obviously  is  the  Jew's  grief  for  his  ducats 
and  his  jewels,  rather  than  for  his  daughter,  that  our  sympathy, 
moved  by  the  glowing  passion  in  his  last  speech,  is  turned 
against  him. 

Shylock.  How  now,  Tubal  ?  What  news  from  Genoa  ?  Hast 
thou  found  my  daughter  } 

Tubal.     I  often  came  where  I  did  hear  of  her,  but  never  found  her. 

Shylock.  Why  there,  there,  there,  there !  A  diamond  gone,  cost 
me  two  thousand  ducats  in  Frankfort !  The  curse  rtever  fell  upon  our 
nation  till  now.  I  never  felt  it  till  now.  Two  thousand  ducats  in  that 
and  other  precious,  precious  jewels.  I  would  my  daughter  were  dead 
at  my  foot,  and  the  jewels  in  her  ear  !  Would  she  were  hearsed  at  my 
foot,  and  the  ducats  in  her  coffin  I  No  news  of  them?  Why,  so, — 
and  I  know  not  what 's  spent  in  the  search  !  Why,  thou  loss  upon 
loss !  the  thief  gone  with  so  much,  and  so  much  to  find  the  thief  I 
And  no  satisfaction,  no  revenge ;  nor  no  ill-luck  stirring  but  what  lights 
on  my  shoulders  ;  no  sighs  but  of  my  breathing  ;  no  tears  but  of  my 
shedding. 

Tubal.  Yes,  other  men  have  ill-luck  too.  Antonio,  as  I  heard  in 
Genoa,  — 


The  Merchant  of  Venice,  369 

Shylock.     What!  what!  what !— Ill  luck  ?     Ill  luck? 

Tubal.  —  hath  an  argosy  cast  away  coming  from  Tripolis. 

Shylock,     I  thank  God !  I  thank  God  !     Is  it  true  ?    Is  it  true  ? 

Tubal.    I  spoke  with  some  of  the  sailors  that  escaped  the  wreck. 

Shylock.  I  thank  thee,  good  Tubal.  Good  news,  good  news  ! 
Ha,  ha  !     Where  ?  —  in  Genoa  ? 

Tubal.  Your  daughter  spent  in  Genoa,  as  I  heard,  one  night 
fourscore  ducats. 

Shylock.  Thou  stick'st  a  dagger  in  me,  —  I  shall  never  see  my  gold 
again.     Fourscore  ducats  at  a  sitting  !  fourscore  ducats  ! 

Tubal.  There  came  divers  of  Antonio's  creditors  in  my  company 
to  Venice,  that  swear  he  cannot  choose  but  break. 

Shylock.  I  am  very  glad  of  it.  I  '11  plague  him  ;  I  '11  torture  him  ; 
I  am  glad  of  it. 

Ttibal.  One  of  them  showed  me  a  ring,  that  he  had  of  your 
daughter  for  a  monkey. 

Shylock.  Out  upon  her !  Thou  torturest  me.  Tubal ;  it  was  my 
turquoise ;  I  had  it  of  Leah,  when  I  was  a  bachelor.  I  would  not 
have  given  it  for  a  wilderness  of  monkeys. 

Tubal.     But  Antonio  is  certainly  undone. 

Shylock.  Nay,  that 's  true,  that 's  very  true.  Go,  Tubal,  fee  me  an 
officer ;  bespeak  him  a  fortnight  before.  I  will  have  the  heart  of  him 
if  he  forfeit ;  for  were  he  out  of  Venice  I  can  make  what  merchandise 
I  will.  Go,  go.  Tubal,  and  meet  me  at  our  synagogue ;  go,  good 
Tubal ;  at  our  synagogue,  Tubal.  \Exeunt. 

Well  may  an  old  magazine  writer  on  this  play,  call  Shy- 
lock's  confidant,  the  "  cruel  Tubal."  He  is  wolfish  towards 
Antonio,  and  tears  open  Shylock's  wounds  with  cruel  fangs, 
the  moment  he  appears  to  be  forgetting  them. 

Scene  2. 

This  is  the  crowning  scene  of  the  whole  play,  —  Bassanio's 
choice  of  the  right  casket.  We  see  the  difference  between 
high-souled,  well-nurtured  Portia,  and  poor  little  Jessica. 
Portia,  though  she  confesses  to  Bassanio  her  love,  will  give 
him  no  hint  as  to  his  choice,  remaining  loyal  to  the  wishes 

24 


370  The  Merchant  of  Venice, 

of  her  dead  father.  But  she  puts  trust  in  Him  who  rules  the 
choice.  Hear  her  sweet  speech  while  soft  music  is  being 
played,  and  the  man  she  loves  is  choosing  for  her  happiness 
or  misery. 

Let  music  sound,  while  he  doth  make  his  choice  ; 

Then,  if  he  lose,  he  makes  a  swan-like  end,  , 

Fading  in  music ;  that  the  comparison 

May  stand  more  proper,  my  eye  shall  be  the  stream, 

And  watery  death-bed  for  him.     He  may  win  ; 

And  what  is  music  then  ?  then  music  is 

Even  as  the  flourish,  when  true  subjects  bow 

To  a  new-crowned  monarch  ;  such  it  is 

As  are  those  dulcet  sounds  in  break  of  day 

That  creep  into  the  dreaming  bridegroom's  ear, 

And  summon  him  to  marriage.     Now  he  goes, 

With  no  less  presence,  but  with  much  more  love, 

Than  young  Alcides,  when  he  did  redeem 

The  virgin  tribute  paid  by  howling  Troy 

To  the  sea-monster.     I  stand  for  sacrifice  ; 

The  rest  aloof  are  the  Dardanian  wives, 

With  bleared  visages,  come  forth  to  view 

The  issue  of  the  exploit.     Go,  Hercules  1 

Live  thou,  I  live.     With  much,  much  more  dismay 

I  view  the  fight,  than  thou  that  mak'st  the  fray. 

And  when  his  choice  is  fortunate,  hear  her  delight :  — 

Portia.  How  all  the  other  passions  fleet  to  air, 
As  doubtful  thoughts,  and  rash- embraced  despair, 
And  shuddering  fear,  and  gredn-eyed  jealousy. 

0  love,  be  moderate,  allay  thy  ecstasy, 

In  measure  rain  thy  joy,  scant  this  excess  ; 

1  feel  too  much  thy  blessing,  make  it  less, 
For  fear  I  surfeit ! 

Then  comes  that  noble  speech  in  which  she  gives  herself 
away  to  him  who  has  won  her.  Pray  Heaven  that  Bassanio 
be  worthy  of  his  prize  !    There  have  been  women  who  gave 


The  Merchant  0/  Venice,  371 

themselves  and  all  they  had  and  were,  with  as  full  hearts,  and 
with  as  generous  impulses  as  Portia.  And  there  have  been 
ungenerous  Bassanios  who  simply  looked  on  wifely  service 
and  on  wifely. wealth  as  a  cold  right,  — the  legal  product  of 
an  advantageous  marriage.  I  can  never  bear  to  think  how 
it  might  be  with  Portia  if  she  met  with  no  fitting  response  to 
her  love  and  generosity.  If  her  full  trust  in  her  soldier  and 
scholar  were  to  meet  with  disappointment,  how  would  she 
adjust  herself  to  the  burden  she  would  have  to  bear?  "  For 
perfect  womanly  grace,"  says  one,  "  for  simple  feeling,  com- 
ing from  a  heart  too  pure  and  true  to  be  troubled  by  false 
shame,  where  shall  we  match  Portia's  self-surrender  ?  Where 
she  gives  her  heart,  she  gives  all  besides,  freely,  entirely,  de- 
lighting in  it,  counting  everything  too  small  to  be  reckoned  a 
sacrifice  for  love,  and  rejoicing  at  the  thought  of  resigning 
herself  into  better  hands  than  her  own." 

Portia.     You  see  me,  lord  Bassanio,  where  I  stand, 
Such  as  I  am  ;  though,  for  myself  alone, 
I  would  not  be  ambitious  in  my  wish 
To  wish  myself  much  better,  yet  for  you 
I  would  be  trebled  twenty  times  myself; 
A  thousand  times  more  fair,  ten  thousand  times 
More  rich  ; 

That  only  to  stand  high  on  your  account, 
I  might  in  virtues,  beauties,  livings,  friends, 
Exceed  account.     But  the  full  sum  of  me 
Is  sum  of  something ;  which,  to  term  in  gross, 
Is  an  unlessoned  girl,  unschooled,  unpractised. 
Happy  in  this,  she  is  not  yet  so  old 
But  she  may  learn  ;  and  happier  than  this. 
She  is  not  bred  so  dull  but  she  can  learn  ; 
Happiest  of  all  is,  that  her  gentle  spirit 
Commits  itself  to  yours  to  be  directed. 
As  from  her  lord,  her  governor,  her  king. 
Myself,  and  what  is  mine,  to  you  and  yours 


372  The  Merchant  of  Ve7iice, 

Is  now  converted ;.  but  now  I  was  the  lord 
Of  this  fair  mansion,  master  of  my  servants, 
Queen  o'er  myself;  and  even  now,  but  now, 
This  house,  these  servants,  and  this  same  myself. 
Are  yours,  my  lord  ;  I  give  them  with  this  ring, 
Which  when  you  part  from,,  lose,  or  give  away, 
Let  it  presage  the  ruin  of  your  love, 
And  be  my  vantage  to  exclaim  on  you. 

The  strain  of  this  exalted  feeling  is  broken  ia  upon  by 
Gratiano,  who  announces  his  engagement  to  Nerissa.  It  is 
commonly  considered  that  tliis  was  a  mad-cap  match,  made 
up  in  great  haste  and  without  consideration,  but  I  think  not. 
Gratiano  had  been  very  solicitous  to  accompany  Bassanio  to 
Belmont,  and  I  doubt  not  had  been  there  before,  and  known 
Nerissa,  and  contracted  a  fancy  for  her,  even  as  Bassanio 
had  fallen  in  love  with  Portia.  Nerissa  is  a  lady-in-waiting, 
but  is  somewhat  kitchen-minded.  She  keeps,  her  native 
coarseness  in  check  when  conversing  with  Portia;  but  it 
breaks  out  in  her  intercourse  with  Gratiano. 

And  now  while  congratulations  are  being  exchanged,  and 
happiness  seems  complete,  bad  news  is  brought  by  a  Venetian 
messenger,  Salerio,  accompanied  by  Lorenzo  and  Jessica,  of 
the  overthrow  of  Antonio's  fortunes ;  "  his  ventures  have 
failed,  the  time  has.  gone  by  when  the  bond  could  be  re- 
deemedf  and  nothing  can  drive  the  inexorable  Jew  from 
the  envious  pleas  of  forfeiture,  of  justice,  and  his  bond." 
The  first  things  Portia  lias  to  share  with  her  Bassanio  are 
trouble  and  perplexity. 

Portia.    There  are  some  shrewd  contents  in  yon  same  paper, 
That  steal  the  color  from  Bassanio's  cheek. 
Some  dear  friend  dead ;  else  nothing  in  the  world 
Could  turn  so  much  the  constitution 
Of  any  constant  man.     What,  worse  ?  —  and  worse  ?  — 


The  Merchant  of  Venice.  373 

With  leave,  Bassanio  ;  I  am  half  yourself, 
And  I  must  freely  have  the  half  of  anything 
That  this  same  paper  brings  you. 

Bassanio.  O  sweet  Portia, 

Here  are  a  few  of  the  unpleasantest  words 
That  ever  blotted  paper  !     Gentle  lady, 
When  I  did  first  impart  my  love  to  you, 
I  freely  told  you  all  the  wealth  I  had 
Ran  in  my  veins,  I  was  a  gentleman^ 
And  then  I  told  you  true.    And  yet,  dear  lady. 
Rating  myself  at  nothing,  you  shall  see 
How  much  I  was  a  braggart.     When  I  told  you 
My  state  was  nothing,  I  should  then  have  told  you 
That  I  was  worse  than  nothing ;  for,  indeed, 
I  have  engaged  myself  to  a  dear  friend, 
Engaged  my  friend  to  his  mere  enemy, 
To  feed  my  means.     Here  is  a  letter,  lady,  — 
The  paper  as  the  body  of  my  friend. 
And  every  word  in  it  a  gaping  wound. 
Issuing  life-blood.     But  is  it  true,  Salerio  ? 
Have  all  his  ventures  failed  .?     What,  not  one  hit  ?  — 
From  Tripolis,  from  Mexico,  and  England, 
From  Lisbon,  Barbary,  and  India  .-* 
And  not  one  vessel  'scaped  the  dreadful  touch 
Of  merchant-marring  rocks .? 

Salerio.  Not  one,  my  lord ; 

Besides,  it  should  appear  that  if  he  had 
The  present  money  to  discharge  the  Jew, 
He  would  not  take  it.     Never  did  I  know 
A  creature,  that  did  bear  the  shape  of  man, 
So  keen  and  greedy  to  confound  a  man. 
He  plies  the  Duke  at  morning,  and  at  night ; 
And  doth  impeach  the  freedom  of  the  state 
If  they  deny  him  justice  ;  twenty  merchants, 
The  Duke  himself,  and  the  magnificoes 
Of  greatest  port,  have  all  persuaded  with  him  ; 
But  none  can  drive  him  from  the  envious  plea 
Of  forfeiture,  of  justice,  and  his  bond. 

Jessica.     When  I  was  with  him,  I  have  heard  him  swear, 
To  Tubal,  and  to  Chus,  his  countrymen, 


374  1^^^  Merchant  of  Venice, 

That  he  would  rather  have  Antonio's  flesh, 
Than  twenty  times  the  value  of  the  sum 
That  he  did  owe  him ;  and  I  know,  my  lord, 
If  law,  authority,  and  power  deny  not, 
It  will  go  hard  with  poor  Antonio. 

Portia.     Is  it  your  dear  friend,  that  is  thus  in  trouble  ? 

Bassanio.    The  dearest  friend  to  me,  the  kindest  man, 
The  best  conditioned,  and  unwearied  spirit 
In  doing  courtesies ;  and  one  in  whom 
The  ancient  Roman  honor  more  appears, 
Than  any  that  draws  breath  in  Italy. 

Portia.     What  sum  owes  he  the  Jew  ? 

Bassanio.     For  me,  three  thousand  ducats. 

Portia.  What  I  no  more  } 

Pay  him  six  thousand,  and  deface  the  bond. 
Double  six  thousand,  and  then  treble  that. 
Before  a  friend  of  this  description 
Shall  lose  a  hair  through  lord  Bassanio's  fault. 
First  go  with  me  to  church  and  call  me  wife, 
And  then  away  to  Venice  to  your  friend. 

.  .  .  You  shall  have  gold 
To  pay  the  petty  debt  twenty  times  over. 
When  it  is  paid,  bring  your  true  friend  along. 
My  maid  Nerissa  and  myself  meantime 
Will  live  as  maids  and  widows.     Come,  away ! 
For  you  shall  hence  upon  your  wedding-day ; 
Bid  your  friends  welcome,  show  a  merry  cheer; 
Since  you  are  dear-bought,  I  will  love  you  dear. 
But  let  me  hear  the  letter  of  your  friend. 

Bassanio  [reads].  "  Sweet  Bassanio,  my  ships  have  all  miscarried; 
my  creditors  grown  cruel ;  my  estate  is  very  low  ;  my  bond  to  the  Jew 
is  forfeit ;  and  since,  in  paying  it,  it  is  impossible  I  should  live,  all 
debts  are  cleared  between  you  and  I,  if  I  might  but  see  you  at  my 
death.  Notwithstanding,  use  your  pleasure.  If  your  love  do  not 
persuade  you  to  come,  let  not  my  letter." 

Portia.     O  love  !  despatch  all  business,  and  be  gone  ! 

Bassanio  had  evidently  dismissed  his  passing  apprehension 
of  danger  to  his  friend  under  the  terms  of  the  Jew's  bond, 
"  and  now  he  awakens  to  that  fact  in  an  agony  between  love 


The  Merchant  of  Venice,  375 

for  his  friend  and  remorse  at  having  injured  him.  Charac- 
teristically, Portia  wastes  no  words  till  she  has  grasped  the 
facts  of  the  case  ;  then  she  comes  to  the  rescue  with  a  superb 
indifference  to  the  cost.  She  is  only  delighted  that  it  is 
possible  to  save  Antonio  by  such  a  poor  thing  as  money. 
She  sees  at  once  what  Bassanio  ought  to  do,  with  loving  tact 
makes  it  all  easy  for  him,  and  sends  him  off  without  delay." 

Scene  3. 

Here  we  see  Antonio  in  his  lowest  abasement.  He  has 
humbled  himself  to  ask  mercy  from  his  creditor.  He  has 
persuaded  his  jailer  to  let  him  go  forth  in  his  company,  that 
he  may  make  one  last  appeal  to  the  fierce  usurer,  whom, 
whether  for  good  or  for  evil,  he  never  has  understood,  and 
never  could.  Though  Antonio's  disposition  is  despondent, 
life  is  still  sweet  to  him.  The  motive  of  Shylock's  enmity  to 
this  good  man  is  again  and  again  set  before  us.  The 
Christian  had  interfered  with  the  Jew's  business.  He  had 
rescued  hapless  debtors  from  his  grasp  ere  he  could  squeeze 
from  them  their  last  coin.  He  had  lent  money  to  the  poor 
at  rates  that  shamed  the  dealings  of  the  usurer.  This  is 
the  ground  of  hatred,  but  upon  it  have  accumulated  other 
reasons  for  hate.  Antonio's  scorn  of  Shylock  as  a  hard  bad 
man  and  a  misbeliever,  his  possible  connivance  in  the  flight 
of  Jessica,  the  delight  of  demanding  Christian  justice  upon 
one  who  had  despised  and  loathed  his  suffering  nation  in 
the  days  of  his  wealth  and  his  prosperity,  lead  the  triumphant 
Jew  exultingly  to  trust  in  that  adherence  to  law  which  had 
already  led  the  highest  officer  of  Venice  to  assist  him  in  his 
search  through  the  holds   and  cabins  of  the  gay  pleasure- 


37^  The  Merchant  of  Venice. 

boat  of  Bassanio.     Listen  to  poor  Antonio,  as  he  enters  the 
Valley  of  Humiliation  :  — 

Antonio.  Hear  me  yet,  good  Shylock. 

Shylock.     I  '11  have  my  bond  ;  speak  not  against  my  bond ; 
I  have  sworn  an  oath,  that  I  will  have  my  bond. 
Thou  calledst  me  dog,  before  thou  hadst  a  cause. 
But,  since  I  am  a  dog,  beware  my  fangs. 
The  Duke  shall  grant  me  justice.     I  do  wonder, 
Thou  naughty  gaoler,  that  thou  art  so  fond 
To  come  abroad  with  him  at  his  request. 

Antonio.     I  pray  thee,  hear  me  speak. 

Shylock.     I  'U  have  my  bond ;  I  will  not  hear  thee  speak. 
I  '11  have  my  bond  ;  and  therefore  speak  no  more. 
I  '11  not  be  made  a  soft  and  dull-eyed  fool, 
To  shake  the  head,  relent,  and  sigh,  and  yield 
To  Christian  intercessors.     Follow  not ; 
I  '11  have  no  speaking  ;  I  will  have  my  bond. 

\Exit  Shylock. 

Salanio.     It  is  the  most  impenetrable  cur, 
That  ever  kept  with  men. 

Antonio.  Let  him  alone, 

I  '11  follow  him  no  more  with  bootless  prayers. 
He  seeks  my  life  ;  his  reason  well  I  know ; 
I  oft  delivered  from  his  forfeitures 
Many  that  have  at  times  made  moan  to  me  ; 
Therefore  he  hates  me. 

Scene  4.    - 

Bassanio  being  gone,  Portia  is  left  in  Belmont  to  share  the 
company  of  Jessica.  Jessica,  on  the  first  arrival  of  the  news 
of  Antonio's  situation,  had  spoken  out  boldly  concerning  her 
father's  hatred  to  Antonio,  and  his  probable  determination 
to  exact  the  forfeiture  provided  for  in  the  bond ;  but  Portia 
knew  not  then  who  she  might  be,  and  paid  little  attention  to 
her;  7iow^  left  alone  with  her  new  guest,  she  knows  her, 
hears,  and  fears.     With  the  fear  rises  a  plan.     She  will  go  to 


The  Merchant  of  Venice,  377 

Padua,  and  impart  it  to  her  cousin  Bellario;  he  shall  say 
if  it  is  practicable  j  he  shall  use  it  to  defend  Antonio.  She 
and  Nerissa  will  accompany  him,  dressed  up  as  lawyers' 
clerks,  and  see  the  scene,  and  greet  their  husbands.  She  is 
brimming  over  with  mirth  at  the  thought ;  you  can  see  that 
in  her  soul  she  is  thinking  of  the  triumph  and  the  "  fun." 
Of  the  awful  responsibility  that  is  awaiting  her,  of  the  Jew's 
obduracy,  of  his  refusal  of  her  money  when  she  tenders  it, 
she  has  no  suspicion.  She  has  been  all  her  life  accustomed 
to  independent  action  ;  and  (unaccustomed  yet  to  any  matri- 
monial yoke)  she  will  be  independent  now.  She  had  been 
melancholy  when  the  play  opened ;  she  is  all  frolic  since  she 
was  won  by  the  right  lover.  Gervinus,  the  German  critic, 
thinks  that  Portia  has  a  deliberate  plan  of  proving  Bassanio's 
worth  of  character  by  seeing  how  he  will  act  in  friendship, 
and  thence  arguing  how  he  will  act  in  marriage.  Fie  on  the 
man  who  would  attribute  calculation  of  any  kind  to  Portia ! 

She  sends  her  husband  off  in  haste,  confident  that  double 
money  (or  twenty  times  double  money)  will  buy  the  Jew ; 
then  she  begins  to  fear,  under  the  influence  of  Jessica,  and 
plans  that  Bellario  shall  undertake  the  case,  she  and  Nerissa 
attending  him.  Bellario,  while  he  approves  her  plan,  proves 
too  sick  to  go  to  Venice.  She  begins  to  feel  the  case  more 
and  more  pressing.  Encouraged  by  Bellario,  she  takes  the 
part  of  advocate,  and  reaches  Venice,  no  longer  full  of  the 
spirit  of  fun,  but  weighted  with  a  dreadful  responsibility ;  and 
she  is  but  just  in  time.  She  evidently  is  familiar  with  the 
ordinary  machinery  of  law  courts.  Her  heart  and  head  are 
so  full  of  her  mission  that,  bride  as  she  is,  she  hardly  notices 
her  husband.  But  this  is  anticipating.  Hear  what  Lorenzo 
says  of  Antonio,  and  Jessica  of  Portia  :  — 


378  The  Merchant  of  Venice, 

Lorenzo.    Madame,  although  I  speak  it  in  your  presence, 
You  have  a  noble  and  a  true  conceit 
Of  god-like  amity  J  which  appears  most  strongly 
In  bearing  thus  the  absence  of  your  lord. 
But  if  you  knew  to  whom  you  show  this  honor, 
How  true  a  gentleman  you  send  relief, 
How  dear  a  lover  of  my  lord,  your  husband, 
I  know  you  would  be  prouder  of  the  work 
Than  customary  bounty  can  enforce  you. 

Portia.     I  never  did  repent  for  doing  good. 
Nor  shall  not  now ;  for  in  companions 
That  do  converse  and  waste  the  time  together. 
Whose  souls  do  bear  an  equal  yoke  of  love, 
There  must  be  needs  a  like  proportion 
Of  lineaments,  of  manners,  and  of  spirit ; 
Which  makes  me  think  that  this  Antonio, 
Being  the  bosom  lover  of  my  lord, 
Must  needs  be  like  my  lord.     If  it  be  so, 
How  little  is  the  cost  I  have  bestowed 
In  purchasing  the  semblance  of  my  soul 
From  out  the  state  of  hellish  cruelty  ! 
This  comes  too  near  the  praising  of  myself; 
Therefore  no  more  of  it. 

Scene  5. 

Lorenzo.  How  cheer'st  thou,  Jessica  ? 

And  now,  good  sweet,  say  thy  opinion. 
How  dost  thou  like  the  lord  Bassanio's  wife  ? 

Jessica.     Past  all  expressing.     It  is  very  meet, 
The,  lord  Bassanio  live  an  upright  life  ; 
For,  having  such  a  blessing  in  his  lady, 
He  finds  the  joys  of  heaven  here  on  earth ; 
And,  if  on  earth  he  do  not  mean  it,  it 
Is  reason  he  should  never  come  to  heaven. 
Why,  if  two  gods  should  play  some  heavenly  match. 
And  on  the  wager  lay  two  earthly  women. 
And  Portia  one,  there  must  be  something  else 
Pawned  with  the  other;  for  the  poor  rude  world' 
Hath  not  her  fellow. 


The  Merchant  of  Venice,  379 


Act   IV.     Scene  i. 

And  now  we  enter  on  the  trial- scene.  Antonio,  having  in 
vain  humbled  himself  to  ask  the  Jew's  forbearance,  stands 
*'  opposing  patience  to  his  fury,  armed  to  suffer  with  quietness 
of  spirit." 

Not  one  word  can  be  spared  in  this  great  scene ;  but  let 
us  first  see  what  other  writers  have  said  of  it. 

**The  Duke  sweeps  in,"  says  one,  "stately  and  venerable. 
[We  imagine  him  to  be  an  old  man,  though  nothing  is  said 
about  it.]  He  is  sorry  for  Antonio ;  he  is  willing  to  try  to 
move  Shylock,  but  at  the  same  time  he  is  resolved  upon  up- 
holding the  justice  of  his  government.  Then  Antonio,  hav- 
ing got  his  one  wish  of  seeing  Bassanio  before  his  death,  has 
steadied  himself  into  a  great  calm.  He  is  hopeless ;  but  he 
is  resolute  to  bear  the  worst  with  manly  endurance.  Only 
one  thing  he  seems  to  dread,  —  any  prolonging  of  the  trial. 
Nearly  all  he  says  expresses  his  wish  to  expedite  matters, 
and  end  the  terrible  suspense.  Antonio  can  be  resigned  for 
himself,  but  Bassanio  cannot  attempt  to  be  so  for  him,  —  no 
wonder,  under  the  circumstances.  .  .  .  He  is  naturally  too 
quick  and  '  soldier -like  '  to  reason  or  care  about  the  principles 
of  legal  justice  in  the  face  of  this  misery.  He  wants  to  save 
Antonio  anyhow.  ...  If  he  forgot  Antonio's  risk  during 
his  suit  to  Portia,  now  he  would  even  lose  Portia,  if  Antonio 
might  thereby  be  saved.  From  head  to  heel  he  seems  to 
tingle  with  suppressed  excitement,  which  in  a  lesser  degree 
is  shared  by  Gratiano,  who,  with  all  his  ribaldry  and  reckless- 
ness, is  really  attached  to  Antonio,  and  feels  keenly  for  him ; 
though  the  feeling  mainly  expresses  itself  in  fierce  contempt 
for  Shylock.     Opposed  to  the  group  of  friends  stands  the 


380  The  Merchant  of  Venice. 

Jew  himself,  striving  to  control  his  stormy  passions  so  far  as 
to  be  able  to  state  his  case  coherently ;  but  we  feel  he  is  on 
the  point  of  bursting  out  all  the  time,  which  adds  greatly  to 
the  thrilling  effect  of  the  whole  scene.  He  is  almost  beside 
himself  with  exultation  at  the  revenge  which  he  deems  certain, 
—  at  the  prospect  of  quickly  gratifying  his  long-cherished 
desire.  His  fear  of  the  Duke's  authority  barely  suffices  to 
check  the  insolence  of  his  triumph,  even  when  directly  speak- 
ing to  him.  To  the  rest  of  the  audience  his  whole  tone  is, 
*  I  am  not  bound  to  please  thee  with  my  answers.'  .  .  . 

"Hard,  relentless,  intensely  bitter,  —  every  evil  passion 
displayed  in  his  frantic  eagerness  as  he  stands  before  us,  — 
we  see  why  Shylock's  name  has  grown  into  a  proverb  for  that 
worst  form  of  injustice  which  clings  to  the  letter  of  the  law, 
disregarding  its  spirit,  and  after  trampling  on  every  sacred 
right  and  duty,  turns  round  and  asks  of  heaven  and  earth, 
'  What  judgment  shall  I  dread,  doing  no  wrong? '  " 

Lady  Martin  (Miss  Helen  Faucit)  says  that  the  Duke's 
first  speech  to  Shy  lock  shows  great  want  of  tact,  and  is 
calculated  to  irritate  him.  "Who  likes  it  to  be  taken  for 
granted,"  she  says,  "that  he  is  going  to  do  a  good  action? — 
to  be  told  that  it  is  expected  of  him  ?  Such  an  appeal  would 
be  likely  to  make  even  a  gentle  nature  perverse.  The  treat- 
ment of  the  Jew  by  the  friends  of  Antonio  is  also  little  cal- 
culated to  bend  him  from  his  purpose.  It  would  only,  if 
possible,  harden  his  heart  still  more." 

Here  is  his  answer  to  the  Duke,  spiced  with  grim  humor. 
Before  I  saw  Schlegel's  remark,  that  "  in  Shylock's  speeches 
we  can  imagine  we  hear  a  sprinkling  of  Jewish  pronunciation 
in  the  written  words,"  the  same  idea  had  struck  me.  It  is 
most   noticeable   in   his   first  interview  with  Antonio   and 


The  Merchant  of  Venice.  381 

Bassanio ;  and  I  fancied  I  could  detect  Germanisms,  as  if 
Shakspeare  had  studied  his  Shylock  from  some  German 
Jew. 

Shylock.    I  have  possessed  your  grace  of  what  I  purpose ; 
And  by  our  holy  sabbath  have  I  sworn 
To  have  the  due  and  forfeit  of  my  bond. 
If  you  deny  it,  let  the  danger  light 
Upon  your  charter,  and  your  city's  freedom. 
You  '11  ask  me  why  I  rather  choose  to  have 
A  weight  of  carrion  flesh  than  to  receive 
Three  thousaiid  ducats.     I  '11  not  answer  that,. 
But  say  it  is  my  humor.     Is  it  answered  ? 
"What  if  my  house  be  troubled  with  a  rat, 
And  I  be  pleased  to  give  ten  thousand;  ducats 
To  have  it  haned  ?     What,  are  you  answered  yet  ? 
Some  men  there  are,  love  not  a  gaping  pig  \ 
Some,  that  are  mad  if  they  behold  a  cat. 

.  .  .  Affection, 
Mistress  of  passion,  sways  it  to  the  nwod 
Of  what  it  likes,  or  loathes.     Now,  for  your  answer. 
As  there  is  no  firm  reason  to  be  rendered 
Why  he  cannot  abide  a  gaping  pig ; 
Why  he,  a  harmless,  necessary  cat ; 
So  can  I  give  no  reason,  nor  I  will  not, 
More  than  a  lodged  hate,  and  a  certain  loathing 
I  bear  Antonio,  that  I  follow  thus 
A  losing  suit  against  him.     Are  you  answered  ? 

Bassanio.    This  is  no  answer,  thou  unfeeling  man, 
To  excuse  the  current  of  thy  cruelty. 

Shylock.     I  am  not  bound  to  please  thee  with  my  answer. 

Bassanio.     Do  all  men  kill  the  things  they  do  not  love  ? 

Shylock.     Hates  any  man  the  thing  he  would  not  kill  ? 

Bassanio.     Every  offence  is  not  a  hate  at  first. 

Shylock.     What,  wouldst  thou  have  a  serpent  sting  thee  twice  ? 

Antonio.     I  pray  you,  think  you  question  with  the  Jew  ; 
You  may  as  well  go  stand  upon  the  beach. 
And  bid  the  main  flood  bate  his  usual  height ; 
You  may  as  well  use  question  with  the  wolf, 
Why  he  hath  made  the  ewe  bleat  for  the  lamb  ? 


382  The  Merchant  of  Ve^iice, 

You  may  as  well  forbid  the  mountain  pines 

To  wag  their  high  tops,  and  to  make  no  noise, 

"When  they  are  fretted  with  the  gusts  of  heaven; 

You  may  as  well  do  anything  most  hard, 

As  seek  to  soften  that  (than  which  what 's  harder  ?) 

fiis  Jewish  heart.     Therefore,  I  do  beseech  you, 

Make  no  more  offers,  use  no  further  means. 

But,  with  all  brief  and  plain  conveniency, 

Let  me  have  judgment,  and  the  Jew  his  will. 
Bassanio.     For  thy  three  thousand  ducats,  here  is  six, 
Shylock.     If  every  ducat  in  six  thousand  ducats 

Were  in  six  parts,  and  every  part  a  ducat, 

I  would  not  draw  them,  I  would  have  my  bond. 

Duke.     How  shalt  thou  hope  for  mercy,  rend'ring  none  t 
Shylock.     What- judgment  shall  I  dread,  doing  no  wrong  ? 

You  have  among  you  many  a  purchased  slave, 

Which,  like  your  asses,  and  your  dogs  and  mules, 

You  use  in  abject  ^nd  in  slavish  parts 

Because  you  bought  them.     Shall  I  say  to  you, 

Let  them  be  free,  marry  them  to  your  heirs  ? 

Why  sweat  they  under  burthens  ?  let  their  beds 

Be  made  as  soft  as  yours,  and  let  their  palates 

Be  seasoned  with  such  viands  ?    You  will  answer. 

The  slaves  are  ours.     So  do  I  answer  you. 

The  pound  of  flesh  which  I  demand  of  him. 

Is  dearly  bought,  is  mine,  and  I  will  have  it  1 

If  you  deny  me,  fie  upon  your  law ! 

There  is  no  force  in  the  decrees  of  Venice. 

I  stand  for  judgment.    Answer ;  shall  I  have  it  ? 

At  this  point  Portia  and  Nerissa  arrive,  sent  by  Bellario, 
who  is  too  ill  to  come. 

In  acting,  the  mahce  and  impatience  expressed  by  Shylock's 
whetting  his  knife  on  the  sole  of  his  shoe,  while  Portia  is 
speaking,  acts  with  tremendous  power  on  the  imagination. 
Shylock's  retaliation  on  Gratiano  for  his  fierce  abuse,  by  in- 
sulting him  with  the  epithet  "good  youth,"  is  admirable. 
Portia  begins,  after  delivering  her  credentials,  to  soothe  the 


The  Merchant  of  Venice.  383 

Jew,  whom  she  desires  to  soften,  acknowledging  at  once  that 
he  has  the  law  on  his  side.  She  gives  up  the  indefensible  in 
her  defence  that  she  may  better  move  the  Jew  to  mercy. 

As  this  is  one  of  the  most  celebrated  scenes  in  Shakspeare 
it  seems  right  to  give  it  here  almost  entire.  In  reading  it 
mark  Portia's  persistent  attempts  to  guide  the  Jew  into  the 
paths  of  mercy,  so  that  she  may  have  some  excuse  for  simply 
paying  him,  and  so  ending  the  case  happily.  Suggestion 
after  suggestion  on  her  part  he  puts  aside,  as  she  does  sub- 
sequently suggestion  after  suggestion  upon  his.  It  is  not 
until  after  Antonio's  pathetic  speech,  to  which  the  Jew  listens 
without  emotion,  that  Portia's  anger  blazes  forth  against  him. 

Portia,  Do  you  confess  the  bond  ? 

Antonio.     I  do. 

Portia.  Then  must  the  Jew  be  merciful. 

Shylock.     On  what  compulsion  must  I  ?  tell  me  that. 

Portia.     The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strained ; 
It  droppeth  as  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven 
Upon  the  place  beneath  :  it  is  twice  blessed ; 
It  blesseth  him  that  gives,  and  him  that  takes : 
'T  is  mightiest  in  the  mightiest ;  it  becomes 
The  throned  monarch  better  than  his  crown. 
His  sceptre  shows  the  force-  of  temporal  power, 
The  attribute  to  awe  and  majesty, 
Wherein  doth  sit  the  dread  and  fear  of  kings ; 
But  mercy  is  above  this  sceptred  sway, 
It  is  enthroned  in  the  hearts  of  kings, 
It  is  an  attribute  to  God  himself; 
And  earthly  power  doth  then  show  likest  God's, 
"When  mercy  seasons  justice.    Therefore,  Jew, 
Though  justice  be  thy  plea,  consider  this,  — 
That,  in  the  course  of  justice,  none  of  us 
Should  see  salvation  ;  we  do  pray  for  mercy ; 
And  that  same  prayer  doth  teach  us  all  to  render 
The  deeds  of  mercy.    I  have  spoke  thus  much. 
To  mitigate  the  justice  of  thy  plea ; 


384  The  Merchant  of  Venice, 

Which  if  thou  follow,  this  strict  court  of  Venice 
Must  needs  give  sentence  'gainst  the  merchant  there. 

Shy  lock.     My  deed  's  upon  my  head  !     I  crave  the  law, 
The  penalty  and  forfeit  of  my  bond. 

Portia.     Is  he  not  able  to  discharge  the  money  ? 

Bassanio.     Yes,  here  I  tender  it  for  him  in  the  court ; 
Yea,  twice  the  sum  ;  if  that  will  not  suffice, 
I  will  be  bound  to  pay  it  ten  times  o'er, 
On  forfeit  of  my  hands,  my  head,  my  heart; 
If  this  will  not  suffice,  it  must  appear 
That  malice  bears  down  truth.     And  I  beseech  you 
Wrest  once  the  law  to  your  authority. 
To  do  a  great  right,  do  a  little  wrong  ; 
And  curb  this  cruel  devil  of  his  wilL 

Portia.     It  must  not  be  ;  there  is  no  power  in  Venice 
Can  alter  a  decree  established. 
'T  will  be  recorded  for  a  precedent ; 
And  many  an  error,  by  the  same  example, 
Will  rush  into  the  state  :  it  cannot  be. 

Shylock.     A  Daniel  come  to  judgment !  yea,  a  Daniel !  - 
O  wise  young  judge,  how  do  I  honor  thee  ! 

Portia.     I  pray  you,  let  me  look  upon  the  bond. 

Shylock.     Here  't  is,  most  reverend  doctor,  here  it  is  ! 

Portia.    Shylock,  there  's  thrice  thy  money  offered  thee. 

Shylock.    An  oath!  an  oath  !  I  have  an  oath  in  heaven. 
Shall  I  lay  perjury  to  my  soul  .'* 
No !  not  for  Venice. 

Portia.  Why,  this  bond  is  forfeit ; 

And  lawfully  by  this  the  Jew  may  claim 
A  pound  of  flesh,  to  be  by  him  cut  off 
Nearest  the  merchant's  heart.     Be  merciful ; 
Take  thrice  thy  money ;  bid  me  tear  the  bond. 

Shylock.     When  it  is  paid  according  to  the  tenor. 
It  doth  appear  you  are  a  worthy  judge ; 
You  know  the  law  ;  your  exposition 
Hath  been  most  sound.     I  charge  you  by  the  law, 
Whereof  you  are  a  well-deserving  pillar, 
Proceed  to  judgment.     By  my  soul  I  swear 
There  is  no  power  in  the  tongue  of  man 
To  alter  me.     I  stay  here  on  my  bond. 


The  Merchant  of  Venice.  385 

Antonio.    Most  heartily  I  do  beseech  the  court 
To  give  the  judgment. 

Portia.  Why  then,  thus  it  is  : 

You  must  prepare  your  bosom  for  his  knife  ; 

Shylock.     O,  noble  judge  !     O,  excellent  young  man ! 

Portia.     —  for  the  intent  and  purpose  of  the  law 
Hath  full  relation  to  the  penalty 
Which  here  appeareth  due  upon  the  bond. 

Shylock.     'T  is  very  true.     O,  wise  and  upright  judge  ! 
How  much  more  elder  art  thou  than  thy  looks  ! 

Portia.    Therefore,  lay  bare  your  bosom. 

Shylock.  Ay,  his  heart, 

So  says  the  bond^  —  doth  it  not,  noble  judge  ? 
Nearest  his  heart ;  those  are  the  very  words. 

Portia,    It  is  so.    Are  there  balances  here  to  weigh 
The  flesh  t 

Shylock.    I  have  them  ready. 

Portia.    Have  by  some  surgeon,  Shylock,  on  your  charge, 
To  stop  his  wounds,  lest  he  do  bleed  to  death. 

Shylock.    Is  it  so-  nominated  in  the  bond  ? 

Portia.     It  is  not  so  expressed.     But  what  of  that  ? 
'T  w6re  good  you  do  so  much  for  charity. 

Shylock.     I  cannot  find  it ;  't  is  not  in  the  bond. 

Portia.    Come,  merchant,  have  you  anything  to  say  ? 

Antonio.    But  little  ;  I  am  armed  and  well  prepared. 
Give  me  your  hand,  Bassanio.     Fare  you  well ; 
Grieve  not  that  I  am  fallen  to  this  for  you ; 
For  herein  fortune  shows  herself  more  kind 
Than  is  her  custom.     It  is  still  her  use. 
To  let  the  wretched  man  outlive  his  wealth, 
To  view  with  hollow  eye,  and  wrinkled  brow, 
An  age  of  poverty ;  from  which  lingering  penance 
Of  such  a  misery  doth  she  cut  me  off. 
Commend  me  to  your  honorable  wife. 
Tell  her  the  process  of  Antonio's  end  ; 
Say  how  I  loved  you ;  speak  me  fair  in  death  ; 
And  when  the  tale  is  told,  bid  her  be  judge 
Whether  Bassanio  had  not  once  a  love. 
Repent  not  you  that  you  shall  lose  your  friend, 
And  he  repents  not  that  he  pays  your  debt ; 

25 


386  The  Merchant  of  Venice. 

For  if  the  Jew  do  cut  but  deep  enough, 
I  '11  pay  it  instantly  with  all  my  heart. 

Bassanio.     Antonio,  I  am  married  to  a  wife, 
Which  is  as  dear  to  me  as  life  itself; 
But  life  itself,  my  wife  and  all  the  world. 
Are  not  with  me  esteemed  above  thy  life. 
I  would  lose  all,  ay,  sacrifice  them  all 
Here  to  this  devil,  to  deliver  you. 

Portia.     Your  wife  would  give  you  little  thanks  for  that, 
If  she  were  by,  to  hear  you  make  the  offer. 

Gratiano.     I  have  a  wife,  whom  I  protest  I  love. 
I  would  she  were  in  heaven,  so  she  could 
Entreat  some  power  to  change  this  currish  Jew. 

Nerissa.    'T  is  well  you  offer  it  behind  her  back  ; 
The  wish  would  make  else  an  unquiet  house. 
Shy  lock  [aside].   These  be  the  Christian  husbands !  I  have  a  daughter; 
Would  any  of  the  stock  of  Bar-Abbas 
Had  been  her  husband,  rather  than  a  Christian ! 
We  trifle  time  ;  I  pray  thee,  pursue  sentence. 

Portia.    A  pound  of  that  same  merchant's  flesh  is  thine  ; 
The  court  awards  it,  and  the  law  doth  give  it. 
Shylock.     Most  rightful  judge  1 

Portia.    And  you  must  cut  this  flesh  from  off  his  breast ; 
The  law  allows  it,  and  the  court  awards  it. 
Shylock.    Most  learned  judge  I    A  sentence  ;  come,  prepare ! 
Portia.    Tarry  a  little,  —  there  is  something  else. 
This  bond  doth  give  thee  here  no  jot  of  blood ; 
The  words  expressly  are,  a  pound  of  flesh. 
Take  then  thy  bond,  take  then  thy  pound  of  flesh. 
But  in  the  cutting  of  it,  if  thou  dost  shed 
One  drop  of  Christian  blood,  thy  lands  and  goods 
Are  by  the  laws  of  Venice,  confiscate 
Unto  the  State  of  Venice. 

Gratiano.    O  upright  judge  !    Mark,  Jew !  —  O  learned  judge  ! 
Shylock.     Is  that  the  law  ? 

Portia.  Thyself  shalt  see  the  act ; 

For  as  thou  urgest  justice,  be  assured 
Thou  shalt  have  justice,  more  than  thou  desirest. 

Gratiano.    O  learned  judge  !    Mark,  Jew  !  —  A  learned  judge  ! 
Shylock.    I  take  this  offer  then ;  pay  the  bond  thrice. 
And  let  the  Christian  go. 


The  Merchant  of  Venice.  387 

Bassanio.  Here  is  the  money ! 

Portia.     Soft.     The  Jew  shall  have  all  justice.     Soft,  no  haste  \ 
He  shall  have  nothing  but  the  penalty. 

Observe  that  the  principals  in  the  court-room,  touched  by 
compassion  for  the  baffled  wretch  now  at  their  mercy,  do 
not  exult  over  him;  they  leave  that  to  their  underling, 
Gratiano. 

The  sentence  seems  severe,  but  it  was  for  conspiring  against 
the  life  of  a  Venetian  citizen.  All  Shylock's  wealth  is  for- 
feited, half  to  the  State,  half  to  Antonio,  and  his  life  is  at 
the  Duke's  mercy.  But,  moved  by  Portia's  plea  for  mercy 
wliich  yet  rings  in  their  ears,  they  show  to  Shylock  what 
they  doubtless  consider  an  extreme  lenity  and  consideration. 
The  Duke  grants  him  his  life ;  and  when  Portia,  turning  to 
Antonio,  asks  what  he  will  do  for  his  enemy,  he  pleads  to  the 
Duke  for  the  restoration  of  all  his  property,  on  the  condition 
that  he  may  hold  half  in  trust  for  Lorenzo  and  Jessica,  and 
that  a  deed  of  gift  may  be  at  once  recorded  to  Lorenzo  and 
Jessica  of  all  that  Shylock  may  die  possessed  of.  Added  to 
this,  Antonio  is  disposed  to  exact  his  baptism  as  a  Christian. 
Such  was  the  mediaeval  conception  of  the  virtues  of  an  en- 
forced profession,  and  such  the  mediaeval  want  of  apprecia- 
tion of  the  spirit  of  Christianity. 

Portia  refuses  any  remuneration  from  the  man  she  has 
befriended,  nor  will  she  accept  courtesies  from  the  Duke. 
She  says  to  Antonio  :  — 

He  is  well  paid  that  is  well  satisfied ; 
And  I,  delivering  you,  am  satisfied, 
And  therein  do  account  myself  well  paid  ; 
My  mind  was  never  yet  more  mercenary. 
I  pray  you,  know  me  when  we  meet  again  ; 
I  wish  you  well,  and  so  I  take  my  leave. 


388  The  Merchant  of  Venice, 

Then  ensues  that  pretty  scene  in  which  Portia  and  Nerissa 
get  possession  of  the  rings  they  gave  their  husbands  ;  and  the 
great  tragic  strain  being  taken  off,  Portia's  blithe  nature 
triumphs,  and  she  is  ready  for  fun  again. 

Act  V.     Scene  i. 

This  fifth  act  would  be  superfluous  were  it  not  added  to 
relieve  the  mind  of  reader  or  spectator,  who  has  found  the 
last  act  full  of  tragic  incident,  and  now  needs  the  soothing 
influences  of  love,  happiness,  and  romance,  dashed  with  a 
little  lively  comedy. 

In  the  first  scene,  Lorenzo  with  his  stolen  Jessica  are 
walking  in  the  moonlight,  making  the  most  charming  love  to 
each  other.  In  the  midst  of  which  a  messenger  arrives, 
telling  them  that  Portia  is  near  at  hand. 

Lorenzo.    The  moon  shines  bright ;  in  such  a  night  as  this, 
When  the  sweet  wind  did  gently  kiss  the  trees, 
And  they  did  make  no  noise,  —  in  such  a  night, 
Troilus,.  methinks,  mounted  the  Trojan  walls, 
And  sighed  his  soul  toward  the  Grecian  tents, 
Where  Cressid  lay  that  night, 

Jessica,  In  such  a  night 

Did  Thisbe  fearfully  o'ertrip  the  dew ; 
And  saw  the  lion's  shadow  ere  himself, 
And  ran  dismayed  away. 

Lorenzo.  In  such  a  night 

Stood  Dido,  with  a  willow  in  her  hand, 
Upon  the  wild  sea-banks,  and  waved  her  love 
To  come  again  to  Carthage. 

Jessica.  In  such  a  night 

Medea  gathered  the  enchanted  herbs 
That  did  renew  old  ^son. 

Lorenzo.  In  such  a  night 

Did  Jessica  steal  from  the  wealthy  Jew  ; 
And  with  an  unthrift  love  did  run  from  Venice, 
As  far  as  Belmont. 


The  Merchant  of  Venice,  389 

Jessica.  And  in  such  a  night 

Did  young  Lorenzo  swear  he  loved  her  well  j 
Stealing  her  soul  with  many  vows  of  faith, 
And  ne'er  a  true  one. 

Lorenzo.  And  in  such  a  night 

Did  pretty  Jessica,  like  a  little  shrew, 
Slander  her  love,  and  he  forgave  it  her. 

Jessica.     I  would  out-night  you  did  nobody  come. 
But  hark,  I  hear  the  footing  of  a  man. 

Then,  as  soft  music  strikes  up  under  the  trees,  a  prelude  to 
the  welcome  home  of  Portia,  Lorenzo  cannot  bear  to  quit 
the  place,  and  makes  his  charming  love  sit  longer  in  the 
moonlight. 

How  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  this  bank  I 

Here  will  we  sit,  and  let  the  sounds  of  music 

Creep  in  our  ears  ;  soft  stillness,  and  the  night, 

Become  the  touches  of  sweet  harmony. 

Sit,  Jessica.     Look,  how  the  floor  of  heaven 

Is  thick  inlaid  with  patines  of  bright  gold ; 

There 's  not  the  smallest  orb  which  thou  beholdest, 

But  in  his  motion  like  an  angel  sings, 

Still  quiring  to  the  young-eyed  cherubins. 

Such  harmony  is  in  immortal  souls  ; 

But  whilst  this  muddy  vesture  of  decay 

Doth  grossly  close  it  in,  we  cannot  hear  it. 

Jessica.     I  am  never  merry  when  I  hear  sweet  music. 

\Mu5ic. 

Lorenzo.     The  reason  is,  your  spirits  are  attentive. 
For  do  but  note  a  wild  and  wanton  herd. 
Or  race  of  youthful  and  unhandled  colts. 
Fetching  mad  bounds,  bellowing,  and  neighing  loud, 
Which  is  the  hot  condition  of  their  blood,  — 
If  they  but  hear  perchance  a  trumpet  sound, 
Or  any  air  of  music  touch  their  ears, 
You  shall  perceive  them  make  a  mutual  stand, 
Their  savage  eyes  turned  to  a  modest  gaze 
By  the  sweet  power  of  music.     Therefore  the  poet 
Did  feign  that  Orpheus  drew  trees,  stones,  and  floods  ; 


390  The  Merchant  of  Venice. 

Since  nought  so  stockish,  hard,  and  full  of  rage, 
But  music  for  the  time  doth  change  his  nature. 
The  man  that  hath  no  music  in  himself, 
Nor  is  not  moved  with  concord  of  sweet  sounds, 
Is  fit  for  treasons,  stratagems,  and  spoils ; 
The  motions  of  his  spirit  are  dull  as  night, 
And  his  affections  dark  as  Erebus. 
Let  no  such  man  be  trusted. 

{Enter  Portia  and  Nerissa  in  the  distance. 

Portia.    That  light  we  see  is  burning  in  my  hall. 
How  far  that  little  candle  throws  his  beams ! 
So  shines  a  good  deea  in  a  naughty  world. 

Nerissa.     When  the  moon  shone  we  did  not  see  the  candle. 

Portia.     So  doth  the  greater  glory  dim  the  less. 
A  substitute  shines  brightly  as  a  king 
Until  a  king  be  by ;  and  then  his  state 
Empties  itself,  as  doth  an  inland  brook, 
Into  the  main  of  waters. 

Here,  as  a  commentary  on  Portia's  last  words,  pretty 
Jessica,  on  her  appearance,  becomes  absolutely  silent. 

The  final  scene,  with  the  reflim  of  the  husbands,  the  re- 
covery of  the  two  rings,  and  Portia's  graceful  welcome  of 
Antonio  to  "  our  house,"  must  be  regretfully  omitted.  If  you 
read  it,  you  will  note  that  Nerissa,  though  decorous  when 
associated  with  Portia,  gives  a  loose  rein  to  her  pert  wit  when 
she  talks  with  Gratiano.  I  hope  her  husband  took  her  away 
from  Belmont,  and  that  pretty  Jessica  succeeded  to  her  place 
as  lady-in-waiting,  to  be  improved  arid  educated  by  her 
intercourse  with  Portia.  As  for  that  sweet  lady,  may  her 
married  life  have  been  a  happy  one;  but  I  wish  she  had 
married  Antonio.  As  old  Nestor  says,  when  he  hears  in  the 
dark  the  tramp  of  horses,  — 

"  I  hope,  and  yet  I  fear." 


CYMBELINE. 


CYMBELINE. 

HAZLITT  says  of"  Cymbeline  "  that  it  may  be  consid- 
ered a  dramatic  romance,  in  which  the  most  striking 
parts  of  the  story  are  thrown  into  the  form  of  dialogue,  and 
the  intermediate  circumstances  are  explained  by  the  different 
speakers  as  occasion  renders  it  necessary.  "  The  reading  of 
this  play,"  he  adds,  "is  like  going  a  journey  with  some  un- 
certain object  at  the  end  of  it,  in  which  the  suspense  is  kept 
up  and  heightened  by  the  long  intervals  between  each  action." 

The  central  figure  of  the  play  is  Imogen,  Princess  of 
Britain,  —  the  brightest  example  in  all  literature  of  perfect 
wifehood  and  true  womanhood. 

While  never  forgetful  of  her  dignity  as  a  princess,  and  of 
her  obligations  to  her  kingdom,  Imogen's  whole  being  is 
"  bound  up  in  the  bundle  of  life  "  with  that  of  her  husband 
and  lord.  "  In  her,"  says  Mrs.  Jameson,  "  a  variety  of  tints 
are  mingled  together  with  perfect  harmony.  In  her  we  have 
all  the  fervor  of  youthful  tenderness,  all  the  romance  of 
youthful  fancy,  all  the  enchantment  of  ideal  grace,  the  bloom 
of  beauty,  the  brightness  of  intellect,  and  the  dignity  of  rank, 
taking  a  peculiar  hue  from  the  conjugal  character  which  is 
shed  over  all  like  a  consecration.  .  .  .  Imogen,  throughout 
the  play,  is  an  angel  of  light,  whose  lovely  presence  pervades 
and  animates  the  whole  piece." 


394  Cymbeline, 


"Cymbeline"  is  one  of  those  plays  of  Shakspeare  —  the 
others  being  the  "Winter's  Tale"  and  "The  Merchant  of 
Venice"  —  where  the  path  of  the  story  leads  us  along  the 
very  verge  of  tragedy.  Throughout  "  Cymbeline  "  there  is 
nothing  that  can  properly  be  called  comic  ;  everything  moves 
us  to  pity,  or  rouses  us  to  apprehension. 

It  has  never  been  a  popular  acting-play,  and  that  from 
several  causes.  The  main  incident  of  the  story  is  not  pleas- 
ing ;  and  subtle  as  the  distinctions  of  character  are  among 
the  minor  personages,  there  are  no  star-parts  in  it  for  male 
actors.  The  part  of  Imogen  needs  a  lady  of  exceptional 
refinement.  It  was  one  of  Miss  Helen  Faucit's  favorite  char- 
acters ;  but  when  will  the  public  look  upon  her  like  again  ? 

The  story  is  founded  on  a  tale  of  Boccaccio's  in  the 
"  Decamerone."  There  Imogen  is  Zinevra,  wife  of  a  rich 
gentleman  of  Genoa.  The  circumstances  of  the  bet,  and  of 
the  treachery  of  lachimo  are  the  same ;  but  then  the  story 
wanders  into  all  sorts  of  improbabilities,  and  in  the  end 
Zinevra  and  her  husband  are  made  wealthy  and  happy  by  a 
decree  of  the  Soldan  of  Egypt,  who  bestows  on  them  the  riches 
of  Ambroglio  (the  lachimo),  while  the  unfortunate  man  is 
smeared  with  honey,  and  left  in  the  sun  to  be  stung  to  death 
by  flies,  —  apparently  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  prototype  of 
Imogen. 

Shakspeare  has  not  taken  contemporary  Italian  life  as  a 
setting  for  his  story;  he  has  put  it  back  into  the  poet's 
fairy-land,  while  it  pretends  to  be  founded  on  semi-historical 
facts.  The  scene  is  in  the  Land  of  the  Round  Table  and 
the  Grail,  but  the  date  is  that  of  the  last  days  of  Roman 
rule  in  Britain ;  the  religion  is  semi -pagan,  and  the  manners 
have  not  yet  caught  the  tone  of  Christian  chivalry. 


Cymdeline.  395 


In  the  folio  edition  of  Shakspeare,  printed  in  1623,  "  Cym- 
beline  "  is  placed  among  the  tragedies,  and  for  that  reason  is 
still  so  numbered  by  many  modern  editors.  It  is  less  a 
tragedy,  however,  than  "The  Winter's  Tale,"  which  con- 
tains two  deaths,  —  that  of  Antigonus  and  little  Mamillius, 
heir-apparent  to  the  Sicilian  throne.  Cymbeline,  King  of 
Britain,  is  mentioned  by  name  by  Holinshed,  as  well  as 
his  two  sons,  Guiderius  and  Arviragus.  The  old  historian 
also  relates  the  circumstance  of  his  refusing  to  pay  tribute 
to  Rome. 

The  scene  is  partly  at  the  court  of  Britain,  partly  among 
the  mountains  of  South  Wales.  In  its  contrasts  between  the 
intrigues  of  a  court  and  the  sweet  life  of  woods  and  streams, 
it  resembles  "  As  you  Like  It ; "  but  the  forest-life  in  "  Cym- 
beline "  is  very  different  from  life  in  the  forest  of  Arden.  The 
deer  that  Jaques  moralized  upon  are  simply  "  game  "  to  old 
Belarius  and  his  boys.  But  Shakspeare  knew  that  life,  re- 
moved from  centres  of  thought  and  interest,  must  and  should 
pall  on  the  ardent  and  the  young.  The  princely  lads  are  weary 
of  it,  sweet  as  it  seems  to  Imogen,  even  as  in  Arden  Touch- 
stone assures  us  "  that  in  respect  to  country-life  being  soli- 
tary," he  likes  it  "very  well,  but  in  respect  that  it  is  private, 
it  is  a  very  vile  life.  In  respect  that  it  is  in  the  fields,"  he 
adds,  "it  pleaseth  me  well,  but  in  respect  it  is  not  in  the 
court,  it  is  tedious."  The  sons  of  Cymbeline  had  never  been 
at  court,  but  their  hearts  beat  to  the  same  measure  as  that  of 
the  battered  court-fool. 

Act  I.    Scene  i. 

When  the  play  opens  Cymbeline  is  King  of  Britain.  The 
history  of  his  court  is  related  by  two  gentlemen.    We  are 


39^  Cymbeline, 


not  told  where  the  court  was ;  possibly  at  Winchester,  per- 
haps at  Caerlyon  upon  Usk.^ 

The  King,  who  is  a  weak,  opinionated,  wife-ridden  old 
man,  had  been  twice  married.  By  his  first  wife  he  had  had 
three  children,  —  two  boys  and  Princess  Imogen.  The  boys 
had  been  spirited  away  in  infancy,  and  had  disappeared 
entirely  and  mysteriously. .  Some  years  after  his  first  wife's 
death,  King  Cymbeline  married  a  sly  and  cruel  widow, 
who  had  one  son,  Cloten,  the  child  of  a  former  husband. 
This  son  it  was  the  object  of  her  life  to  mate  with 
Princess  Imogen,  and  so  raise  him  to  her  husband's 
throne.  She  probably  counted  on  the  imbecility  of  Cloten 
to  enable  her  to  continue  that  rule  in  Britain  which  she 
was  suffered  to  usurp  by  her  weak  husband.  But  such 
a  woman  as  sweet  Imogen  could  not  possibly  have  united 
herself  to  such  a  man  as  Cloten ;  nor,  as  heiress  of  Eng- 
land, could  a  woman  of  her  intellect  and  conscientiousness 
have  been  willing  to  put  her  people  into  his  power.  Be- 
sides, she  had  been  brought  up  during  her  mother's  life-time 
with  a  young  nobleman  *of  the  court,  Leonatus  Posthu- 
mus,  who  under  peculiar  circumstances  had  been  adopted 
by  her  parents.  Posthumus  was  the  son  of  a  nobleman,  of 
distinguished  rank  and  prowess,  who,  with  two  older  sons, 
died,  sword  in  hand,  in  the  King's  cause.  This  youngest 
son  was  born  after  his  father's  death,  and  cost  the  life  of  his 
mother.  He  had  been  surnamed  Posthumus,  and  raised  at 
the  court  of  Britain,  where  Shakspeare  is  careful  one  of  his 

1  At  Caerlyon,  a  few  months  after  the  publication  of  the  first  volume  of  the 
"Idylls  of  the  King,"  an  American  traveller  inquiring  for  a  copy  of  the  poem 
in  the  little  bookstore  of  the  town,  found  that  the  bookseller  had  ordered  no 
copies  from  London,  having  no  idea  that  the  work  contained  anything  of 
local  interest  which  might  make  it  salable. 


Cymbeline.  397 


first  speakers  should  tell  us  that,  though  poor,  he  was  a  worthy 

gentleman ;  that  he  was  — 

A  creature  such 
As,  to  seek  through  the  regions  of  the  earth 
For  one  his  like,  there  would  be  son\ething  failing 
In  him  that  should  compare.     I  do  not  think 
So  fair  an  outward,  and  such  stuff  within, 
Endows  a  man  but  he. 

The  second  speaker  objects  that  this  praise  is  too  extrava- 
gant. "  No,"  answers  the  other,  "  I  do  crush  him  together, 
rather  than  unfold  his  measure  duly."  The  King,  he  goes 
on  to  say,  having  taken  the  babe  to  his  protection,  — 

Put  him  to  all  the  learnings  that  his  time 
Could  make  him  the  receiver  of;  which  he  took, 
As  we  do  air,  fast  as  't  was  ministered  ;  and 
In  his  spring  became  a  harvest.     Lived  in  court 
(Which  rare  it  is  to  do)  most  praised,  most  loved,  — 
A  sample  to  the  youngest ;  to  the  more  mature, 
A  glass  that  feated  them ;  and  to  the  graver, 
A  child  that  guided  dotards  :  to  his  mistress, 
For  whom  he  now  is  banished,  —  her  own  price 
Proclaims  how  she  esteemed  him  and  his  virtue ; 
By  her  election  may  be  truly  read 
What  kind  of  man  he  is. 

Thus  we  gather  that  from  infancy  Posthumus  had  been 
assigned  to  Princess  Imogen,  that  their  love  grew  up  under 
the  sanction  of  her  father,  and  doubtless  of  her  mother,  now 
dead,  that  Posthumus  was  wise,  cultivated,  praised,  beloved, 
and  to  all  men  a  rare  example.  It  is  necessary  that  we 
should  know  him  thus,  for  the  part  he  is  about  to  play  does 
not  impress  us  in  his  favor. 

Imogen,  when  the  play  opens,  has  with  calm  dignity,  as 
befits  a  princess,  put  a  barrier  between  herself  and  Cloten, 
by  marrying  the  man  who  has  long  been  acknowledged  her 


39^  Cymbeline. 


accepted  lover.    The  courtiers  all  in  their  hearts  approve  the 

step  that  the  heiress  of  the  realm  has  taken ;  but  the  King, 

stirred  up  by  his  wicked  wife  ("that  late  he  married"  ),  is 

furious  with  Imogen.     He  banishes  Posthumus,  and  places 

Imogen  in  the  custody  of  her  step-mother,  although,  as  the 

courtier  who  tells  the  story  thinks,  "  himself  much  pained 

at  heart." 

Scene  2. 

The  second  scene  is  between  the  Queen,  Imogen  the 
newly-wedded  bride,  and  her  banished  husband. 

The  Queen's  first  words  seem  kindly,  but  Imogen  knows 
her  too  well  to  trust  her  kindness,  though  not  an  imprudent 
or  impatient  word  escapes  her.  The  Queen  proposes  to 
make  Imogen's  imprisonment  as  light  as  possible,  and  to  be 
Posthumus's  advocate  with  the  King,  but  meantime  thinks  he 
had  better  absent  himself.  She  then,  finding  that  Posthumus 
has  resolved  to  quit  the  court,  with  false  consideration  offers 
to  walk  apart  that  the  lovers  may  take  their  farewell. 

Then  Imogen,  who  has  not  spoken  yet,  exclaims,  — 

O, 

Dissembling  courtesy  !     How  fine  this  tyrant 

Can  tickle  where  she  wounds !     My  dearest  husband, 

I  something  fear  my  father's  wrath  ;  but  nothing 

(Always  reserved  my  holy  duty)  what 

His  rage  can  do  on  me.     You  must  be  gone  ; 

And  I  shall  here  abide  the  hourly  shot 

Of  angry  eyes  ;  not  comforted  to  live, 

But  that  there  is  this  jewel  in  the  world, 

That  I  may  see  again. 

Posthumus.  My  queen  !  my  mistress  ! 

O,  lady,  weep  no  more  ;  lest  I  give  cause 
To  be  suspected  of  more  tenderness 
Than  doth  become  a  man !  I  will  remain 
The  loyal'st  husband  that  did  e'er  plight  troth. 


Cymbeline.  399 


My  residence  in  Rome  at  one  Philario's ; 
Who  to  my  father  was  a  friend,  to  me 
Known  but  by  letter  ;  thither  write,  my  queen, 
And  with  mine  eyes  I  '11  drink  the  words  you  send, 
Though  ink  be  made  of  gall. 

Here  rushes  in  the  Queen,  who  has  been  to  warn  Cymbe- 
Hne  that  his  daughter  and  her  husband  are  in  forbidden 
conference.  It  is  hard,  very  hard  to  part,  and  the  lovers 
cling  to  each  other.     Imogen  says  :  — 

Nay,  stay  a  little. 

Were  you  but  riding  forth  to  air  yourself, 

Such  parting  were  too  petty.     Look  here,  love.; 

This  diamond  was  my  mother's  :  take  it,  heart ; 

But  keep  it  till  you  woo  another  wife, 

When  Imogen  is  dead. 

Posthumus.  How!  how!  another?  — 

You  gentle  gods,  give  me  but  this  I  have. 
And  sear  up  my  embracements  from  a  next 
With  bonds  of  death !  —  Remain  thou  here 

{Putting  on  the  ring. 
While  sense  can  keep  it  on  !    And  sweetest,  fairest, 
As  I  my  poor  self  did  exchange  for  you. 
To  your  so  infinite  loss,  so  in  our  trifles 
I  still  win  of  you.    For  my  sake,  wear  this ; 
It  is  a  manacle  of  love  ;  I  '11  place  it 
Upon  this  fairest  prisoner. 

{Putting  a  bracelet  on  her  arm. 

Imogen.  O,  the  gods ! 

When  shall  we  see  again  ? 

Here  comes  in  the  King,  furious  that  the  pair  should  be 
together,  and  with  him  are  the  courtiers.  Posthumus  is  sum- 
marily dismissed,  but  quits  the  court  with  dignity.  Imogen, 
when  she  sees  him  going,  exclaims  under  her  breath,  — 

There  cannot  be  a  pinch  in  death  more  sharp 
Than  this  is  I 


400  *  Cymbeline, 


When  her  father  reproaches  her,  she  only  begs  him  to 
forbear ;  "  For  I,"  she  says,  ''  am  senseless  of  your  wrath. 
A  touch  more  rare  subdues  all  pangs,  all  fears."  But  she 
rouses  herself  when  her  father  says,  "Thou  wouldst  have 
made  my  throne  a  seat  for  baseness."  "  No  !  "  she  cries, 
"  I  rather  added  a  lustre  to  it." 

Sir,  it  is  your  fault  I  loved  Posthumus. 
You  bred  him  as  my  playfellow,  and  he  is 
A  man  worth  any  woman ;  over-buys  me 
Almost  the  price  he  pays. 

How  perfect  is  Imogen's  sense  of  duty  to  her  father,  to 
her  kingdom,  to  her  husband,  to  herself.  She  is  unmatched 
in  her  sweet,  sorrowful  dignity.  "One  feels,"  says  Mrs. 
Jameson,  "  as.  if  we  had  known  and  loved  her  before  she  was 
married  to  Posthumus,  and  that  her  conjugal  virtues  are  a 
charm  superadded,  like  the  color  laid  upon  a  beautiful 
ground-work.  We  see  her  love  to  Posthumus  acting  on  her 
mind  with  the  force  of  an  habitual  feeling,  heightened  by  en- 
thusiastic passion,  and  hallowed  by  a  sense  of  duty." 

Of  the  parting  scene  she  says,  "  Compare  it  with  the  part- 
ing of  Romeo  and  Juliet,  or  df  Troilus  and  Cressida ;  com- 
pare the  confiding  matronly  tenderness  of  Imogen  with  the 
despairing  agony  of  Juliet,  or  the  petulant  grief  of  Cressida." 

The  false  Queen  then  takes  up  her  speech,  and  with  soft, 
honeyed  words  pretends  to  stand  as  mediatrix  between  her 
husband  and  his  child.  The  passionate,  unreasonable,  un- 
stable old  man  flies  into  a  new  burst  of  anger.  The  make- 
believe  partisanship  of  his  wife  was  the  very  thing  to  rouse 
him. 

Then  Pisanio,  the  servant  of  Posthumus,  enters,  having  been 
sent  back  by  his  master  to  watch  over  Imogen.     The  Queen, 


Cymbeline,  401 


who  has  already  deep-laid  plans  of  wickedness,  endeavors  to 

win  him  over  by  her  courtesies.     The  first  thing  that  Pisanio 

reports  is  an  encounter  between  the  base  booby,  Cloten,  and 

his  master.    No  harm  was  done.    "  My  master  rather  played 

than  fought,"  says  Pisanio,  "  and  had  no  help  of  anger." 

But  Imogen,  who  has  not  uttered  one  word  on  her  own 

behalf,  is  indignant  at  this  attack  on  her  husband.     Still,  her 

speech  to  Cloten's  mother  is  politic.     She  has  lived  too  long 

in  a  court  not  to  know  the  mischief  that  may  come  from  an 

unruly  tongue. 

Scene  3. 

This  scene  is  in  a  public  place  between  Cloten  and  two 
lords.  They  are  rejoicing  in  their  hearts  at  his  discomfiture, 
and  making  covert  game  of  him. 

Scene  4. 

We  have  next  an  interview  between  Imogen  and  Pisanio. 
That  worthy  retainer  has  returned  from  the  port,  where  he 
has  seen  his  lord  put  out  to  sea.  Here  is  his  account,  given 
to  Imogen,  who  in  a  half-hour  of  retirement  has  recovered 
herself. 

Imogen.  If  he  should  write, 

And  I  not  have  it,  't  were  a  paper  lost, 
As  offered  mercy  is.     What  was  the  last 
That  he  spake  to  thee  ? 

Pisanio.  'T  was,  "  His  queen,  his  queen  I " 

Imogen.    Then  waved  his  handkerchief? 

Pisanio.  And  kissed  it,  madam. 

Imogen.    Senseless  linen  !  happier  therein  than  I ! 
And  that  was  all  ? 

Pisanio.  No,  madam  ;  for  so  long 

As  he  could  make  me  with  this  eye  or  ear 
Distinguish  him  from  others,  he  did  keep 
The  deck,  with  glove,  or  hat,  or  handkerchief, 

26 


402  Cymbeline, 


Still  waving,  as  the  fits  and  stirs  of  his  mind 
Could  best  express  how  slow  his  soul  sailed  on, 
How  swift  his  ship. 

Imogen.  Thou  shouldst  have  made  him 

As  little  as  a  crow,  or  less,  ere  left 
To  after-eye  him. 

Pisanio.  Madam,  so  I  did. 

Imogen.     I  would  have  broke  mine  eye-strings  ;  cracked  them,  but 
To  look  upon  him,  till  the  diminution 
Of  space  had  pointed  him  sharp  as  my  needle ; 
Nay,  followed  him,  till  he  had  melted  from 
The  smallness  of  a  gnat  to  air,  and  then 
Have  turned  mine  eye  and  wept.     But,  good  Pisanio, 
When  shall  we  hear  from  him  ? 

Pisanio.  Be  assured,  mada,m, 

With  his  next  vantage. 

Imogen.     I  did  not  take  my  leave  of  him,  but  had 
Most  pretty  things  to  say ;  ere  I  could  tell  him, 
How  I  would  think  on  him,  at  certain  hours. 
Such  thoughts,  and  such ;  or  I  could  make  him  swear 
The  shes  of  Italy  should  not  betray 
Mine  interest,  and  his  honor ;  or  have  charged  him, 
At  the  sixth  hour  of  morn,  at  noon,  at  midnight, 
To  encounter  me  with  orisons,  for  then 
I  am  in  heaven  for  him ;  or  ere  I  could 
Give  him  that  parting  kiss  which  I  had  set 
Between  two  charming  words,  comes  in  my  father, 
And  like  the  tyrannous  breathing  of  the  North 
Shakes  all  our  buds  from  growing. 

Scefie  5. 
We  next  find  ourselves  in  Rome,  in  the  palace  of  Philario, 
that  friend  of  his  dead  father  to  whom  Posthumus  had  an- 
nounced his  intention  to  betake  himself.  The  scene  is  not  a 
pleasant  one ;  but  as  we  read  it  and  see  the  cunning  of  the 
Italian,  the  insolence  of  the  Frenchman  (who,  like  a  French- 
man of  his  class  in  our  own  day,  makes  a  boast  of  his 
bonnes  fortunes),  \iQ  feel  that  Posthumus  —  perfectly  confi- 


Cymbeline.  403 


dent  of  his  wife's  unassailable  purity  —  is  making  a  protest 
in  favor  of  good  morals,  and  designs  the  punishment  of  the 
wicked. 

When  the  scene  opens,  Philario  and  his  friends  —  lachimo, 
the  Frenchman,  a  Hollander,  and  a  Spaniard  —  are  dis- 
cussing the  English  milord  who  has  just  come  to  Rome, 
lachimo  had  seen  him  in  Britain,  the  Frenchman  had  met 
him  in  France,  both  some  years  previously.  The  Frenchman 
had  interfered  during  their  former  acquaintance  to  prevent 
a  duel  with  another  Frenchman,  who  had  excited  the  young 
Englishman's  wrath  by  misdoubting  his  statement  that  the 
lady  to  whom  he  professed  allegiance  was  "  the  most  fair, 
virtuous,  chaste,  well-qualified,  and  pure  of  any  lady  in  the 
world."  Posthumus  entering,  this  old  question  is  re-opened. 
You  will  note  that  the  name  of  the  lady  is  never  mentioned, 
though  Posthumus  says  that  when  he  defended  her  first,  he 
was  her  friend  only,  but  is  now  her  adorer. 

Some  critics  have  wondered  why  lachimo  put  himself  so 
forward  in  this  matter ;  but  I  think,  first,  that  he  was  a  needy 
man ;  secondly,  that  he  was  like  some  of  the  men  of  the 
Restoration  described  by  Balzac,  —  a  man  eager  to  attempt 
any  enterprise  (the  more  difficult  the  better),  if  it  would 
assure  him  a  triunjph  over  a  womatfs  honor. 

At  any  rate,  lachimo  makes  a  coarse  bet  with  Posthumus, 
of  ten  thousand  golden  ducats  against  his  diamond  ring,  that 
he  will,  if  furnished  with  letters  to  the  English  court  and  to 
the  lady  in  question,  in  two  days  secure  proofs  of  her  un- 
faithfulness to  her  husband.  Posthumus,  between  his  teeth, 
vows  that  if  he  fail,  as  he  will  fail,  he  shall  answer  to  him 
with  the  sword  for  this  insult  to  his  wife.  So  there  are  now 
three  motives  to  make  lachimo  persist  in  succeeding  at  any 


404  Cymbeline. 


price,  —  his  pecuniary  necessities,  the  thing  he  calls  his 
honor,  and  the  probability  that  if  he  fail  he  will  be  sacrificed 
to  the  just  wrath  of  the  young  English  husband. 

The  wager  is  made  ;  the  terms  are  signed  before  witnesses, 
and  the  money  and  ring  put  up,  with  a  little  faint  remon- 
strance from  Philario. 

Scene  6. 

We  go  back  again  to  Britain.  The  vile  Queen  dismisses 
her  ladies  to  gather  for  her  primroses  and  violets,  and  has 
then  a  secret  interview  with  Cornelius,  the  court  physician. 
She  has  asked  him  to  bring  her  secretly  some  poisons.  He 
says,  presenting  her  a  small  box  :  — 

I  do  beseech  your  grace  (without  offence, 
My  conscience  bids  me  ask)  wherefore  you  have 
Commanded  of  me  these  most  poisonous  compounds, 
Which  are  the  movers  of  a  languishing  death  ; 
But,  though  slow,  deadly  ? 

Queen.  I  do  wonder,  doctor, 

Thou  ask'st  me  such  a  question.     Have  I  not  been 
Thy  pupil  long  ?     Hast  thou  not  learned  me  how 
To  make  perfumes  ?  distil  ?  preserve  ?  yea,  so, 
That  our  great  king  himself  doth  woo  me  oft 
For  my  confections  }     Having  thus  far  proceeded, 
(Unless  thou  think'st  me  devilish)  is't  not  meet 
That  I  did  amplify  my  judgment  in 
Other  conclusions  ?    I  will  try  the  forces 
Of  these  thy  compounds  on  such  creatures  as 
We  count  not  worth  the  hanging,  but  none  human, 
To  try  the  vigor  of  them,  and  apply 
Allayments  to  their  act ;  and  by  them  gather 
Their  several  virtues  and  effects. 

Cornelius.  Your  highness 

Shall  from  this  practice  but  make  hard  your  heart ; 
Besides,  the  seeing  these  effects  will  be 
Both  noisome  and  infectious. 

Queen.  O,  content  thee  -^ 


Cymbeline.  405 


[Enter  Pisanio. 
Here  comes  a  flattering  rascal ;  upon  him     \Aside. 
Will  I  first  work  ;  he 's  for  his  master, 
And  enemy  to  my  son. 

Lady  Martin  thinks  that  Pisanio  may  have  been  servant 
to  old  Sicilius  Leonatus,  and  on  Posthumus's  adoption  by 
Cymbeline,  have  been  appointed  to  the  especial  service  of 
his  orphaned  son.  If  so,  he  had  seen  him  grow  up  beside 
Imogen,  and  was  probably  deep  in  the  plot  (if  we  may  call  it 
so)  of  their  marriage.  On  no  other  hypothesis,  I  think,  can 
we  account  for  the  personal  hatred  felt  for  Pisanio,  both  by 
the  Queen  and  Cloten. 

Cornelius,  as  the  Queen  speaks  to  Pisanio  with  dissembling 
words,  tells  us  in  an  aside,  that  misdoubting  the  intentions  of 
the  Queen,  the  box  that  he  has  given  her  contains  drugs 
that  will  not  kill,  but  only  for  a  time  produce  a  deathlike 
slumber. 

The  Queen,  in  her  interview  with  Pisanio,  is  apparently 
endeavoring  to  persuade  him  to  favor  a  divorce,  and  to  urge 
upon  his  mistress  the  suit  of  Cloten ;  but  she  must  have 
known  that  this  was  but  pains  lost,  for  at  the  same  moment 
she  drops  the  box  of  poisons,  and  Pisanio  picking  them  up, 
she  begs  him  to  keep  the  box  as  containing  medicines  of 
great  value,  hoping  he  will  take  the  drugs  himself,  and  so 
deprive  Imogen  of  the  go-between  between  herself  and  her 
husband.  The  Queen's  purpose  already  is,  if  she  cannot 
raise  her  son  to  the  throne  by  marrying  him  to  Imogen,  to 
remove  her  too.  "  Pisanio,"  says  Lady  Martin,  "  is  a  man  of 
deep  devotion,  respectful,  manly  tenderness,  and  delicacy  of 
feeling." 


4o6  Cymdeline. 


Scene  7. 

This  scene  is  also  in  the  palace.  lachimo  has  arrived, 
bringing  letters  to  Imogen.  She,  poor  lady,  has  been  passing 
months  of  ever- increasing  unhappiness.  She  herself  enumer- 
ates her  trials,  — 

A  father  cruel,  and  a  step-dame  false, 
A  foolish  suitor  to  a  wedded  lady, 
That  hath  her  husband  banished. 

Then  comes  the  thought  of  what  at  once  is  her  chief 
sorrow  and  her  only  comfort, — 

O,  that  husband ! 
My  supreme  crown  of  grief. 

At  this  moment  Pisanio,  always  in  attendance,  brings  her 
word  that  a  noble  gentleman  from  Rome,  with  letters  from 
her  husband,  desires  an  interview. 

I  often  remember  that  in  my  youth  I  heard  a  friend  say 
of  her  mother  that  the  motto  of  her  hfe  had  been  fidelity ; 
"  and,"  she  added,  "  it  is  not  until  we  examine  ourselves  in 
all  our  relations  to  God,  to  others,  and  ourselves  that  we 
know  fully  what  that  means."  Fidelity  might  be  the  motto 
for  Imogen.  Lady  Martin,  who  gave  her  ^'  the  largest  place 
in  her  heart  "  of  all  the  characters  she  acted,  says  of  lier  :  "  A 
grand  and  patient  faithfulness  is  at  the  bottom  of  her  character. 
Yet  she  can  be  angry,  vehement,  passionate,  upon  occasion. 
With  a  being  of  so  fine  and  sensitive  a  nature,  how  could  it 
have  been  otherwise?  Her  soul's  strength  and  tenderness, 
speaking  through  her  form  and  manners,  impress  all  who  see 
her  with  an  irresistible  charm.  Her  fine  taste,  her  delicate 
ways,  her  feminine  accomplishments,  her  sweet  singing  are 
brought  before  us  in  countless  subde  touches.     To  her  be- 


Cymbeline.  407 


longs  especially  the  quality  of  grace,  —  that  quality  which 
Goethe  says  '  draws  all  men  after  it,'  and  which  Racine  says 
'is  even  superior  to  beauty,  or  rather,  is  beauty  sweetly 
animated.'  " 

lachimo,  fastidious  and  cloyed  with  sensuality,  when  he 
sees  her  is  struck  with  admiring  awe,  and  says  to  himself,  as 
he  presents  her  her  husband's  letter,  — 

All  of  her  that 's  out  of  door 's  most  rich  ! 
If  she  be  furnished  with  a  mind  so  rare, 
She  is  alone  the  Arabian  bird ;  and  I 
Have  lost  the  wager. 

I  think  the  act  I  can  least  forgive  in  Posthumus  is  the 
writing  of  this  letter,  recommending  such  a  scoundrel  as 
lachimo,  as  "  one  of  noblest  note,  to  whose  kindness  I  am 
most  infinitely  tied." 

With  pretty  grace,  on  reading  this,  Imogen  welcomes  base 
lachimo,  who  at  once  begins  to  pay  her  impertinent  com- 
pliments, which  Imogen  with  English  innocence  does  not  even 
understand.  Twice  she  begs  him  to  explain  himself,  then 
thinks,  as  he  gazes  at  her  with  a  leer,  that  he  may  be  taken 
ill.  At  this,  determined  to  pursue  his  base  design,  he  begs 
Pisanio  to  go  and  keep  company  with  his  man,  who  is 
"  peevish  and  a  stranger." 

Then  Imogen  begins  to  question  lachimo  about  her  lord. 
She  fears  he  grieves  like  her,  and  therefore  says  :  "  Is  he 
disposed  to  mirth?  —  I  hope  he  is."  To  her  surprise  she  is 
answered,  "  No  stranger  in  all  Rome  is  so  merry  and  so 
gamesome.     He  is  called  the  British  reveller." 

Imogen  says  musingly  that  at  home  he  always  had  been  con- 
sidered inclined  to  sadness.  "  I  never  saw  him  sad,"  exclaims 
lachimo,  and  then  goes  on  to  tell  how  his  chosen  companion 


4o8  Cymbeline. 


is  a  Frenchman,  sick  at  heart  for  love  of  a  girl  in  his  own 
land.  The  tempter  gives  his  victim  to  understand  that  "  the 
Frenchman  sighs,  the  jolly  Briton  laughs,"  and  derides  the 
man  who  really  puts  trust  in  the  faith  and  constancy  of  a 
woman.  More  and  more  bewildered,  Imogen  exclaims, 
"  Will  my  lord  say  so  ?  "  Then,  step  by  step,  lachimo  lets 
the  wife  know  that  he  pities  her. 

As  I  write  this,  my  mind  recalls  Balzac's  De  Marsay,  a 
man  quite  capable  of  acting  the  part  of  lachimo,  yet  a  man 
of  polish,  of  accomplishments,  rising  high  in  the  diplomatic 
world,  successful  with  nearly  every  woman  he  makes  love  to, 
combining  sensuality  with  the  bitterest  cold  common-sense. 
Only  I  hardly  think  De  Marsay  would  have  been  made  sorry 
by  the  wreck  of  Imogen's  happiness,  which  lachimo  in  the 
end  had  the  grace  to  be.  He  goes  on,  more  and  more 
perplexing  Imogen,  who  believes  in  her  husband  too«fully  to 
comprehend  the  insinuations  of  his  detractor.  Finally, 
lachimo  growing  bolder,  insults  her  by  talk  such  as  her  in- 
nocent ears  are  unaccustomed  to,  and  draws  from  her  one 
sorrowful  word,  —  "  My  lord,  I  fear,  hath  forgot  Britain." 

The  reason  very  pure  women  (Mrs.  Pendennis,  for  example) 
are  sometimes  strangely  ready  to  believe*  evil  of  the  men  who 
belong  to  them  is,  that  in  their  estimate  of  the  world,  its 
temptations  and  the  temptability  of  human  nature,  there  is 
always  allowance  made  for  what  we  may  call  *'  an  unknown 
quantity."  They  judge  men  without  being  able  to  weigh  or 
measure  this,  and  their  judgments  are  sometimes  singularly 
unjust,  even  of  the  men  they  love.  For  one  instant  this 
feeling  gets  the  better  of  Imogen  ;  then,  as  lachimo  continues 
his  coarse  talk,  she  puts  him  down  with  the  dignity  of  a 
princess  and  a  wedded  wife,  —  "  Let  me  hear  no  more." 


Cymbeline.  409 


But  he  proceeds,  and  urges  her,  upon  her  dignity,  to  be 
revenged  on  her  unfaithful  husband. 

Imogetu  Revenged  ? 

How  should  I  be  revenged  ?     If  this  be  true 
(As  I  have  such  a  heart  that  both  mine  ears 
Must  not  in  haste  abuse)  — if'\\.  be  true  — 
How  should  I  be  revenged  ? 

Then  lachimo  insults  her  with  an  outrageous  proposition. 
He  dares  not  ask  her  to  love  him,  he  only  proposes  to  let 
him  be  the  instrument  of  her  revenge  upon  her  husband. 
She  makes  him  no  answer.  She  has  not  words  to  do  so. 
She  only  calls  aloud,  "  What  ho  !  Pisanio  ! "  Her  faithful 
guardian,  her  husband's  servitor,  shall  drive  this  reptile  from 
her  presence.  But  lachimo  has  provided  against  that  con- 
tingency. In  the  beginning  of  their  interview  he  had  sent 
away  Pisanio. 

lachimo  persists,  and  then  provokes  an  outburst  of  right- 
eous indignation,  broken  by  cries  of  "  What  ho  !  Pisanio  !  " 
Till  feeling  himself  utterly  foiled,  and  seeing  that  the  only 
way  to  win  her  toleration  is  through  her  devotion  to  her 
husband,  he  resumes  the  gentleman.  One  can  fancy  a 
De  Marsay  so  recovering  himself.  Against  the  finished  man 
of  the  world,  learned  alike  in  its  graces  and  iniquities,  is 
pitted  the  pure  young  English  wife,  impressed  with  his  finish, 
inclined  to  him  by  her  husband's  praise,  hardly  able  to  under- 
stand him,  afraid  she  may  have  misunderstood. 

lachimo,  in  terms  of  hyperbolical  praise,  takes  back  all  he 
had  said  of  Posthumus,  and  Imogen  is  pacified.  In  this 
court,  where  her  dear  lord  is  not  permitted  to  be  praised, 
how  sweet  is  commendation  of  him  to  her  ears  !  lachimo, 
finding  it  pleases  her,  goes  on  :  — 


4IO  Cymbeline, 


He  sits  'mongst  men  like  a  descended  god ; 
He  hath  a  kind  of  honor  sets  him  off. 
More  than  a  mortal  seeming.     Be  not  angry, 
Most  mighty  princess,  that  I  have  adventured 
To  try  your  taking  of  a  false  report ;  which  hath 
Honored  with  confirmation  your  great  judgment 
In  the  election  of  a  sir  so  rare, 
Which  you  know  cannot  err. 

Then,  with  sweet  dignity,  Imogen  gives  him  her  pardon, 
and  offers  him  her  services  at  the  EngHsh  court.  She  cannot 
Hke  the  man ;  but  he  is  returning  to  Posthumus,  and  Post- 
humus  has  recommended  him  to  her  protection.  As  he  is 
leaving  her  he  turns  back,  and  mentions  that  he  has  under 
his  charge  a  trunk  of  valuables,  —  silver  bought  in  France  as 
a  present  for  the  Roman  Emperor;  her  husband  is  one  of 
the  subscribers  to  this  gift;  would  she  allow  him,  for  one 
night,  to  place  it  for  security  in  her  chamber?  Imogen  gives 
a  pleased  assent  to  this  ;  and  the  first  act  —  a  very  long  one 
—  comes  to  an  end. 

Act  II.     Scene  i. 

The  first  scene  in  this  act  is  one  in  which  Cloten  displays 
himself.  The  man  is  handsome,  and  possibly  not  wanting  in 
physical  courage  ;  but  here,  in  the  space  of  a  few  sentences, 
he  shows  himself  a  gamester,  a  brawler,  and  a  swearer, — 
insolent  beyond  measure  to  his  inferiors  in  rank,  loving 
flattery,  and  presuming  on  his  position  as  the  Queen's  son, 
indulged  and  flattered  from  his  infancy.  At  last  his  atten- 
tion is  diverted  from  himself  and  his  oaths,  and  the  man 
whose  head  he  broke  for  spoiling  his  strike  at  bowls,  by 
mention  of  a  stranger  who  has  appeared  at  court  that  day. 
**One  of  Posthumus's  friends,  it  is  thought,"  says  the  lord 
who  tells  him.    "  Leonatus  Posthunius ?  "  cries  Cloten,  —  ''a 


Cymbeline.  411 


banished  rascal !  And  he 's  another,  whosoever  he  be."  But 
in  an  instant  he  has  changed  his  purpose.  "  Come  !  I  '11  go 
see  this  Italian.  What  I  have  lost  to-day  at  bowls  I  '11  win 
to-nighf  of  him." 

The  lords  in  attendance  are  making  fun  of  the  insolent 
coxcomb  behind  his  back,  with  gibing  comments  upon  every 
speech  that  falls  from  him.  Here  is  what  they  say  when 
he  has  gone  to  seek  a  fresh  victim  in  the  Italian ;  — 

That  such  a  crafty  devil  as  is  his  mother 

Should  yield  the  world  this  ass  !  a  woman  that 

Bears  all  down  with  her  brain  ;  and  this  her  son 

Cannot  take  two  from  twenty  for  his  heart, 

And  leave  eighteen.     Alas,  poor  princess, 

Thou  divine  Imogen  !  what  thou  endur'st 

Betwixt  a  father  by  thy  step-dame  governed, 

A  mother  hourly  coining  plots  ,  a  wooer 

More  hateful  than  the  foul  expulsion  is 

Of  thy  dear  husband,  than  that  horrid  act 

Of  the  divorce  he  'd  make  !     The  heavens  hold  firm 

The  walls  of  thy  dear  honor  ;  keep  unshaked 

That  temple,  thy  fair  mind  ;  that  thou  may'st  stand, 

To  enjoy  thy  banished  lord,  and  this  great  land ! 

This,  then,  was  public  sentiment  at  court ;  and  Cloten's 
purpose  was  well  known  of  procuring  the  divorce  of  Imogen 
and  Posthumus,  and  succeeding  to  the  hand  of  the  Princess, 
and  subsequently  to  the  throne,  when  his  clever  mother  pur- 
posed to  continue  to  govern  the  kingdom.  This  is  why  she 
will  not  outwardly  ill-treat  Imogen  ;  why  she  speaks  honeyed 
words  to  her,  and  pretends  to  be  her  friend.  And  if  Imogen, 
even  though  deprived  of  the  support  of  Pisanio,  will  not 
break  her  marriage  vow,  and  hearken  to  Cloten's  suit,  there 
is  poison,  as  a  last  resort,  in  store  for  her. 


4 1 2  Cymbeline, 


Scene  2. 

We  next  find  ourselves  in  the  rich  bed-chamber  of  Princess 
Imogen.  Surrounded  by  the  luxuries  and  refinements  she 
has  been  used  to  all  her  life,  she  lies  reading.  In  one  corner 
of  her  chamber  stands  the  chest,  supposed  to  contain  plate 
destined  for  the  Emperor.  "  What  hour  is  it  ?  "  asks  Imogen. 
.Her  lady  answers,  "Almost  midnight,  madam." 

How  long  those  hours  must  have  seemed  to  the  fiend 
lying  in  wait  in  the  trunk ! 

Imogen.    I  have  read  three  hours,  then ;  mine  eyes  are  weak. 
Fold  down  the  leaf  where  I  have  left.     To  bed ; 
Take  not  away  the  taper,  leave  it  burning ; 
And  if  thou  canst  awake  by  four  o'  the  clock, 
I  prithee,  call  me.    Sleep  hath  seized  me  wholly. 

You  will  remark  all  through  this  play  (probably  one  of  the 
last  that  Shakspeare  wrote)  the  spirit  of  prayer.  Here  are 
Imogen's  orisons  :  — 

To  your  protection  I  commend  me,  gods  I 
From  fairies,  and  the  tempters  of  the  night, 
Guard  me,  beseech  ye  !  \She  sleeps.^ 

Then  forth  from  the  chest  rises  the  man  with  his  unholy 
purpose.  His  conscience  smites  him.  He  bethinks  him  of 
"  false  Sextus,  who  wrought  the  deed  of  shame."  Hardened 
as  he  is,  the  purity  and  beauty  of  his  victim  awe  him.  Al- 
though she  is  undefended,  except  by  heavenly  powers,  he  dares 
not  touch  her.    Here  is  the  whole  of  his  soliloquy  :  — 

lachimo.    The  crickets  sing,  and  man's  o'er-labored  sense 
Repairs  itself  by  rest.     Our  Tarquin  thus 
Did  softly  press  the  rushes,  ere  he  wakened 
The  chastity  he  wounded.     Cytherea, 
How  bravely  thou  becom'st  thy  bed  I  fresh  lily  ! 


Cymbeline,  413 


And  whiter  than  the  sheets  I    That  I  might  touch  — 
But  kiss ;  one  kiss  !  .  .  .  '  T  is  her  breathing  that 
Perfumes  the  chamber  thus  !     The  flame  o'  the  taper 
Bows  toward  her,  and  would  under-peep  her  lids 
To  see  th'  enclosed  lights,  now  canopied 
Under  these  windows.     White  and  azure,  laced 
With  bits  of  heaven's  own  tinct. 

[  Takes  out  his  tablets. 
But  my  design 
To  note  the  chamber  !     I  will  write  all  down. 
Such  and  such  pictures  ;  there  the  window ;  such 
The  adornment  of  her  bed.     The  arras,  figures, 
Why,  such  and  such ;  and  the  contents  o'the  story. 
Ah,  but  some  natural  notes  about  her  body, 
Above  ten  thousand  meaner  movables, 
Would  testify,  to  enrich  mine  inventory. 
O  sleep,  that  apest  death,  lie  dull  upon  her ! 
And  be  her  sense  but  as  a  monument, 
Thus  in  a  chapel  lying  !    Come  off,  come  off. 

[  Taking  off  her  bracelet. 
As  slippery  as  the  Gordian  knot  was  hard  I 
'  T  is  mine  ;  and  this  will  witness  outwardly, 
As  strongly  as  the  conscience  does  within, 
To  the  madding  of  her  lord.     On  her  left  breast 
A  mole  cinque-spotted,  like  the  crimson  drops 
I'  the  bottom  of  a  cowslip.     Here  's  a  voucher 
Stronger  than  ever  law  could  make.     This  secret 
Will  force  him  think  I  have  picked  the  lock,  and  ta'en 
The  treasure  of  her  honor.    No  more.    To  what  end  .'' 
Why  should  I  write  this  down,  that 's  riveted, 
Screwed  to  my  memory  ?    She  hath  been  reading  late 
The  tale  of  Tereus  ;  here  the  leaf's  turned  dovm, 
Where  Philomel  gave  up.     I  have  enough  ; 
To  the  trunk  again,  and  shut  the  spring  of  it. 
Swift,  swift,  you  dragons  of  the  night !  that  dawning 
May  bare  the  raven's  eye.     I  lodge  in  fear ; 
Though  this  a  heavenly  angel,  hell  is  here. 

The  awe  inspired  by  the  purity  of  Imogen  in  the  breast  of 
this  bad  man  of  the  world,  this  slanderer  of  women,  is  the 


414  Cymbeltne. 


highest  tribute  paid  to  her.  The  book  she  had  been  read- 
ing told  the  story  of  Philomela  and  her  sister  Procene,  who, 
in  extremity,  when  pursued  by  a  wanton  god-head,  were 
changed,  the  one  into  a  nightingale,  the  other  into  a  swallow. 

Scene  3. 

Here  we  again  find  Cloten,  who,  after  a  night  of  gambling, 
has  brought  musicians  to  serenade  her  whom  he  calls  "  that 
fooHsh  Imogen,"  and  others  "  Imogen  the  divine." 

Then  comes  one  of  the  loveliest  of  Shakspeare's  lovely 
songs : — 

Hark,  hark !     The  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings, 

And  Phoebus  'gins  arise, 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 

On  chaliced  flowers  that  lies  ; 
And  winking  Mary-buds  begin 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes  ; 
With  everything  that  pretty  bin, 

My  lady  sweet,  arise. 

The  King  and  Queen  come  in,  early  astir  on  public  busi- 
ness. Caius  Lucius  has  arrived,  ambassador  from  Rome. 
Cloten  says,  "  I  am  glad  I  was  up  so  late,  for  that 's  the 
reason  I  am  up  so  early." 

He  persists  in  forcing  his  way  into  Imogen's  presence. 
She,  having  risen  early,  comes  forth  from  her  chamber. 
The  sweet,  fi?m  courtesy  with  which  she  repels  Cloten's 
advances  at  first,  is  very  beautiful.  When  provoked  into 
alluding  to  his  folly,  she  hastens  to  bind  up  the  wounds 
"  that  her  sweet  teachings  make,"  with  penitent  words. 
Then,  seeing  that  such  courtesy  has  no  effect,  and  that 
Cloten  is  preparing  to  renew  his  suit,  she  speaks  again, 
with  a  firmness  which  she   thinks   he  cannot  misconstrue. 


Cymbeline.  415 


He  answers  her  by  reminding  her  of  her  duty  of  obedi- 
ence as  a  daughter,  and  heaps  reproach  and  contumely 
upon  Posthumus.  Then,  indeed,  Imogen's  anger  bursts 
forth. 

In  the  midst  of  her  indignation  she  suddenly  perceives  that 
her  bracelet  is  not  upon  her  arm,  and  stays  herself  with, 
"  What  ho  !  Pisanio  ! "  In  broken  words  she  complains  of 
the  persecution  that  has  frightened  and  angered  her,  and  says 
to  Pisanio  :  — 

Go,  bid  my  woman 

Search  for  a  jewel,  that  too  casually 

Hath  left  mine  arm  ;  it  was  thy  master's  :  'shrew  me, 

If  I  would  lose  it  for  a  revenue 

Of  any  king's  in  Europe.     I  do  think 

I  saw 't  this  morning  :  confident  I  am 

Last  night  \  was  on  mine  arm  ;  I  kissed  it : 

I  hope  it  be  not  gone,  to  tell  my  lord 

That  I  kiss  aught  but  he. 

Imogen,  angry,  nervous,  and  indignant,  and  Cloten, 
wounded  and  spiteful,  close  this  scene  with  a  few  more 
words.  With  a  sarcastic  sentence,  and  a  dignified  sweep, 
Imogen  passes  back  into  her  chamber. 

Scene  4. 

This  is  that  scene  in  Rome  where  lachimo  gives  account  of 
his  mission  in  England  to  the  unsuspecting  Leonatus  Post- 
humus. Another  trouble  now  disquiets  the  exile.  The  em- 
bassy of  Caius  Lucius  is  to  require  arrearages  of  tribute, 
neglected  by  Cymbeline,  to  be  paid  at  once  to  the  Roman 
Emperor.  Posthumus  feels  as  the  American  loyalists  in  Eng- 
land felt  during  our  war  of  the  Revolution,  when,  whatever 
their  political  faith  might  be,  their  hearts  were  with  their 
countrymen.     His  first  greeting  to  lachimo  is  an  expression 


41 6  Cymbeline. 


of  surprise  at  the  promptitude  of  his  return ;  then  he  at  once 
leads  the  way  to  the  great  subject.  The  way  in  which  lach- 
imo  gives  his  letters  to  Posthumus,  and  while  he  reads  them 
turns  aside  to  talk  carelessly  of  the  embassy  of  Caius  Lucius 
should  be  noted.  Imogen's  sweet  letters  are  of  course  sat- 
isfactory, and  Posthumus  says,  pointing  exultingly  to  his 
diamond :  — 

Sparkles  this  stone  as  it  was  wont  ?    Or  is 't 
Too  dull  for  yoar  good  wearing  ? 

"  If  I  had  lost  it,"  replies  lachimo,  according  to  the  old 
corrector  of  the  folio  Shakspeare,  "  I  should  more  than  have 
lost  the  worth  of  it  in  gold,"  — 

I  'd  make  a  journey  twice  as  far  to  enjoy 
A  second  night  of  such  sweet  shortness,  as 
Was  mine  in  Britain^ — for  the  ring  is  won. 

I  have  said  already,  and  I  here  repeat,  that  I  by  no'  means 
consider  lachimo  the  vulgar  stage  villain.  Like  Balzac's  Henri 
de  Marsay,  he  is  a  man  utterly  without  principle,  with  vanity 
which  would  be  almost  ludicrous  were  it  not  that  success  ap- 
pears to  justify  it.  He  has  all  the  vices  that  are  consistent 
with  being  a  gentleman  (according  to  his  own  perverted 
code).  In  his  intercourse  with  men  he  observes  strictly 
what  the  morality  of  the  Jockey  Club  would  deem  the  line 
of  honor.  His  perceptions  are  keen  on  every  subject ;  he 
delights  in  opening  the  eyes  of  those  around  him.  And  when 
he  pulls  away  the  mask  with  which  vice,  folly,  or  selfishness 
conceals  itself,  part  of  the  pleasure  to  him  is  to  demonstrate 
how  litde  worse  he  is  than  other  people.  He  is  always  ready 
to  cry,  —  and  cry  with  truth,  —  "  I  could  have  told  you  so," 
after  a  misfortune.     He  is  handsome ;  he  is  stripped  of  all 


Cymbeline.  4 1 7 


delusions  ;  he  acknowledges  no  ties  but  those  of  camaraderie^ 
and  here  and  there  of  friendship  (of  a  kind)  ;  but  his  business 
in  Hfe  is  that  of  a  woman-hunter.  He  would  spare  no  pains 
to  run  any  woman  down ;  he  would  stalk  her,  or  pursue  her ; 
the  more  pure  she  was,  the  better ;  the  greater  the  resistance, 
the  greater  glory  would  be  his.  Such  a  man  would  have  been 
quite  capable  of  appreciating  the  loveliness  and  fidelity  of 
Imogen  ;  of  acknowledging  that  to  make  himself  her  lover 
(at  least  in  the  time  allotted  to  him)  was  wholly  impossible, 
and  of  refusing  to  accept  his  defeat  so  long  as  by  any  device 
Posthumus  could  be  imposed  upon. 

By  stroke  after  stroke  lachimo  beats  down  all  the  de- 
fences of  his  victim.  If  he  could  not  overcome  the  fidelity 
of  Imogen,  he  will  that  of  her  husband.  Posthumus  is 
contemptuous ;  then  he  thinks  it  all  an  indecent  joke ; 
then  he  threatens  the  traducer;  then  he  calls  upon  him 
for  proofs. 

Here  is  lachimo's  description  of  Imogen's  bedchamber :  — 

It  was  hanged 
With  tapestry  of  silk  and  silver ;  the  story, 
Proud  Cleopatra,  when  she  met  her  Roman, 
And  Cydnus  swelled  above  the  banks,  or  for 
The  press  of  boats,  or  pride,  —  a  piece  of  work 
So  bravely  done,  so  rich,  that  it  did  strive 
In  workmanship  and  value  ;  which  I  wondered, 
Could  be  so  rarely  and  exactly  wrought.  .  .  . 

The  chimney 
Is  south  the  chamber  ;  and  the  chimney-piece, 
Chaste  Dian,  bathing.     Never  saw  I  figures 
So  likely  to  report  themselves  ;  the  cutter 
Was  as  another  Nature,  dumb,  —  outwent  her. 
Motion  and  breath  left  out.  .  .  . 

The  roof  o'  the  chamber 
With  golden  cherubins  is  fretted.     Her  andirons 
27 


41 8  Cymbeline, 


(I  had  forgot  them)  were  two  winking  Cupids 
Of  silver,  each  on  one  foot  standing,  nicely 
Depending  on  their  brands. 

"This  is  true,"  answers  Posthumus,  with  the  very  sword 
in  his  heart.  "  Still,  you  might  have  learned  this  from 
description." 

Then  lachimo,  exulting  in  the  agony  he  is  going  to  inflict, 
pulls  forth  the  bracelet,  tosses  it  in  his  hand,  and  pockets  it 
again. 

"  Jove  !  "  cries  Posthumus  ;  "  once  more  let  me  behold 
it !     Is  it  that  which  I  left  with  her?  " 

lachimo,  with  cool  impertinence  (with  frightful  frankness, 
had  it  been  the  truth),  replies  :  — 

Sir  (I  thank  her),  that! 
She  stripped  it  from  her  arm.     I  see  her  yet. 
Her  pretty  action  did  outsell  her  gift, 
And  yet  enriched  it  too.     She  gave  it  me,  and  said 
She  prized  it  once. 

"  May  be,"  exclaimed  Posthumus,  "  she  plucked  it  off  to 
send  to  me." 

This  quiet  suggestion  alarms  lachimo,  who  asks  hurriedly, 
"  She  writes  so  to  you,  doth  she  ?  " 

Alas  !  the  supposition  has  nothing  to  support  it. 

"  O  !  no,  no,  no,"  cries  Posthumus,  flinging  him  the  ring, 
"  't  is  true  !  Here,  —  take  this  too.  It  is  a  basilisk,  kills  me 
to  look  on 't." 

Here  Philario,  moved  by  his  guest's  agony,  breaks  in  with 
several  suggestions :  "  The  bracelet  may  have  been  stolen 
by  a  servant." 

"  Very  true  !  "  cries  Posthumus,  "  and  so  I  hope  he  came 
by  *t.     Give  back  my  ring  !  " 


Cymbeline,  419 


lachimo  then  swears  (he  had  not  dared  before  to  swear) 
he  had  it  from  her  arm. 

At  this  Posthumus  grows  frantic ;  again  flings  at  him  the 
ring,  and  sinks  down  in  an  exhaustion  of  suffering.  Philario 
interposes  again.  He  says,  "  Such  infideHty  is  not  suddenly 
to  be  believed  by  one  persuaded  well.  ..."  But  lachimo 
brings- forward  his  last  proof,  —  the  "  mole  cinque-spotted 
on  her  left  breast,"  that  he  had  seen  when  he  drew  off  the 
bracelet.  At  this  Posthumus  goes  beside  himself.  He  is 
mad,  and  though  in  the  presence  of  the  others  (scene  5) 
he  raves  like  a  lunatic.  His  faith  in  all  things  pure,  lovely,  and 
of  good  report  is  shattered  to  pieces.  Of  course,  Posthumus 
is  far  inferior  in  strength  of  moral  fibre  to  his  wife,  but  then 
there  is  a  proneness  to  jealousy,  even  in  good  men,  which 
does  not  exist  in  a  good  woman.  As  one  reads  these  scenes 
one  is  inclined  to  have  patience  with  him  in  his  transports, 
to  be  less  hard  on  him  than  some  critics  have  been  for  his 
insults  to  his  wife,  and  for  his  subsequent  determination  to 
exercise  the  privilege,  never  denied  to  husbands  in  past  ages, 
of  taking  the  life  of  a  guilty  woman.  This  was  law  in  old 
times,  it  is  still  law  with  many  nations,  and  appears  (to  judge 
by  the  newspapers)  to  be  a  permitted  custom  even  among 
ourselves. 

Act  hi.     Scene  i. 

In  this  first  scene  of  the  third  act,  Caius  Lucius,  the  Am- 
bassador, has  audience  with  Cymbeline.  Shakspeare  has 
taken  this  opportunity  to  put  a  fine  picture  of  sea-girdled 
Britain  into  the  mouth  of  the  Queen.  It  is  a  passage  to 
thrill  the  hearts  of  Englishmen. 

Remember,  sir,  my  liege, 
The  kings  your  ancestors ;  together  with 


420  Cymbeline. 


The  natural  bravery  of  your  isle  ;  which  stands 

As  Neptune's  park,  ribbed  and  paled  in 

With  rocks  unscalable,  and  roaring  waters ; 

With  sands,  that  will  not  bear  your  enemies'  boats, 

But  suck  them  up  to  the  top-mast.     A  kind  of  conquest 

Caesar  made  here  ;  but  made  not  here  his  brag, 

Oi  came,  and  saw,  and  overcame ;  with  shame 

(The  first  that  ever  touched  him)  he  was  carried 

From  off  our  coast,  twice  beaten  ;  and  his  shipping 

(Poor  ignorant  baubles  !  )  on  our  terrible  seas, 

Like  eggshells  moved  upon  their  surges,  cracked 

As  easily  'gainst  our  rocks. 

Shakspeare  must  have  been  thinking  of  the  defeat  of  the 
Armada  when  he  wrote  this,  —  an  event  within  his  memory. 

The  high  courtesy  of  the  King  and  the  Ambassador  is  in 
striking  contrast  with  the  feminine  vehemence  of  the  Queen 
(all  women  are  vehement  in  politics  when  their  feelings  are 
excited),  and  the  coarse  interpositions  of  Cloten.  The  tribute 
is  refused,  and  war  is  declared  between  Britain  and  Rome. 

Scene  2. 

Pisanio  has  received  his  master's  letter.  He  is  to  execute 
vengeance,  in  his  master's  name,  on  Imogen,  and  he  is 
'almost  as  much  beside  himself  with  horror  as  Posthumus  has 
been  with  jealousy. 

Disloyal  ?     No : 
She  's  punished  for  her  truth  ;  and  undergoes, 
More  goddess-like  than  wife-like,  such  assaults 
As  would  take  in  some  virtue.     O,  my  master  ! 
Thy  mind  to  her  is  now  as  low  as  were 
Thy  fortunes. 

As  he  is  cursing  the  very  paper  on  which  the  cruel  words 
are  written,  Imogen  enters.  Pisanio's  letter  had  enclosed 
one  to  herself.     It  is  lovely  to  see  how  she  gloats  over  it. 


Cymbeline,  42 1 


how  she  lingers  over  the  envelope  with  loving  words  before 
she  opens  it.  It  is  a  cautious  letter ;  not  lover-like,  but  very 
false.  It  tells  her  that  Posthumus  has  returned  to  Britain,  — 
is  in  Wales,  —  at  Milford  Haven.  "  What  your  own  love 
will  out  of  this  news  advise  you,"  he,says,  "follow." 

Remark  that  though  Posthumus  is  going  to  kill  her  for 
unfaithfulness,  he  never  for  a  moment  doubts  that  her  love 
for  him  will  carry  her  to  Milford  Haven.  Then  Imogen,  in 
her  turn,  is  beside  herself;  she  is  wild  with  happiness.  "O 
for  a  horse  with  wings  !  "  she  cries.  "  How  far  is  Milford 
Haven  ?  —  blessed  Milford  Haven  !  How  can  we  get  there  ? 
How  can  we  leave  the  court?  How  many  miles  an  hour 
can  we  ride?" 

Every  word  sticks  a  knife  into  the  heart  of  Pisanio.  He 
answers  her  raptures  with  a  crabbed  retainer's  discouraging 
words.  She  sends  him  to  provide  her  horses,  and  a  riding- 
dress  j  and  will  brook  no  remonstrance,  no  delay. 

Scene  3. 
This  scene  is  in  the  mountains  of  South  Wales.  Belarius, 
a  noble  general  of  Britain,  had  been  unjustly  treated  about 
twenty  years  before  by  Cymbeline.  He  still  grieves  for  the 
old  days  when  his  royal  master  loved  him.  On  false  accusa- 
tion, that  master  (easily  led  and  weak)  had  believed  him 
confederate  with  the  Romans.  He  was  banished,  but  stole 
away  the  two  boy-princes,  brothers  to  Imogen,  heirs  to  the 
British  throne.  The  boys  have  grown  up  noble,  pure,  and 
good,  and  are  "  mighty  hunters."  But  as  they  feel  their 
manhood  and  their  strength,  their  royal  blood  stirs  in  them. 
Guiderius,  the  elder  by  three  years,  longs  for  the  stir  of  life, 
the  battle  and  the  war-shout,  while  Arviragus,  the  younger, 


42  2  Cvmbeline. 


—  the  poet  (the  Friedel  to  the  Ebbo  in  Miss  Yonge's  "  Dove 
in  the  Eagle's  Nest"),  asks  Belarius, — 

What  should  we  speak  of, 
When  we  are  old  as  you  ?  when  we  shall  hear 
The  rain  and  wind  beat  dark  December,  how, 
In  this  our  pinching  cave,  shall  we  discourse 
The  freezing  hours  away  ?     We  have  seen  nothing ; 
We  are  beastly  ;  subtle  as  the  fox,  for  prey  ; 
Like  war-like  as  the  wolf  for  what  we  eat. 
Our  valor  is  to  chase  what  flies  ;  our  cage 
We  make  a  quire,  as  doth  the  prison  bird. 
And  sing  our  bondage  freely. 

The  boys  are  introduced  as  exhorted  by  Belarius  (whom 
they  think  their  father)  not  to  forget  their  morning  orisons. 
This  gives  us  a  kindly  first  impression  of  old  Belarius  and  of  his 
young  companions.  The  prayer  does  not  shock  us  as  stage- 
prayers  do  in  modern  opera.  It  is  just  enough  for  its  pur- 
pose ;  the  holy  name  of  God  is  not  taken  in  vain. 

After  this  prayer  the  inhabitants  of  the  cave  go  forth  to 
their  day's  labor,  which  is  to  provide  themselves  with  food. 
In  this,  note  the  difference  between  the  sylvan  life  in  the 
fairy-forest  of  Arden,  and  the  real,  rude,  vigorous  life  of 
mountain  hunters. 

Scene  4. 

This  scene  is  in  the  woods  surrounding  Milford  Haven  ; 
indeed,  Milford  is  in  sight  from  the  hill-tops.  Sweet  Imogen, 
who  had  started  so  eager  and  in  such  high  hope,  is  weary 
with  the  journey.  Nor  has  she  found  a  responsive  travelling 
companion  in  old  Pisanio.  At  first,  in  the  exuberance  of 
her  happiness,  she  had  not  noticed  his  dejection.  Now  she 
questions  him,  evidently  in  some  apprehension.  Pisanio 
does  not  speak,  but  holds  out  to  her  her  husband's  letter. 


Cymbeline,  423 


"  My  husband's  hand  ! "  she  cries,  and  her  first  thought  is 
"  My  husband  is  in  trouble  !  "  — 

He  must  be  over-reached 
By  that  drug-damned  Italy. 

"  Please  you,  read,"  says  Pisanio,  "  that  you  may  know  my 
misery." 

She  reads  indeed,  and  as  she  reads  Pisanio  says  :  — 

What  shall  I  need  to  draw  my  sword  ?     The  paper 
Hath  cut  her  throat  already. 

He  tries  to  rouse  her. 

Imogen,     False  to  his  bed  !     What  is  it  to  be  false  } 
To  lie  in  watch  there,  and  to  think  on  him  ? 
To  weep  'twixt  clock  and  clock  ?    If  sleep  charge  nature, 
To  break  it  with  a  fearful  dream  of  him. 
And  cry  myself  awake  ?     That 's  false  to  his  bed, 
Is  it .? 

She  does  not  think  upon  her  husband's  cruelty  ;  she  shows 
no  terror  as  to  her  own  fate.  She  does  not  take  it  in.  All 
her  thought  is  of  this  terrible  —  this  astounding  —  accusation. 
Then  she  bethinks  her  of  lachimo,  not  indeed  as  the  author 
of  this  falsehood,  but  as  having  told  her  that  her  husband  in 
Rome  was  playing  false  to  her  with  other  women.  This 
must  have  changed  him  and  perverted  him ;  this  has  set 
him  against  her.  Using  a  woman's  simile,  for  Imogen  is 
skilful  in  needlework,  she  says  :  — 

Poor  I  am  stale,  a  garment  out  of  fashion  ; 
And,  for  I  am  richer  than  to  hang  by  the  walls, 
I  must  be  ripped :  — to  pieces  with  me! 

The  same  thought  strikes  her  that  has  struck  her  hus- 
band, —  if  one  so  noble  can  be  false,  it  puts  a  doubt  upon  all 
love  and  honor. 


424  Cymbeline. 


Turning  fiercely  to  Pisanio,  she  bids  him  do  his  master's 
bidding,  only  reporting  that  she  had  been  obedient.  Alas  ! 
obedience  in  this  is  the  last  wifely  duty  that  is  left  for  her. 

Seeing  Pisanio  will  not  do  the  deed,  she  entreats  him, 
saying :  — 

Against  self-slaughter 
There  is  a  prohibition  so  divine 
It  cravens  my  weak  hand.     Come,  here  's  my  heart. 

But  something  lies  upon  that  heart.  It  is  her  husband's 
letters.  She  draws  them  forth,  and  scatters  them  to  the 
winds.  In  all  her  grief  her  habit  of  thinking  of  him  first 
leads  her  to  pity  him  for  the  woe  that  he  will  feel,  when 
his  infatuation  for  the  Italian  woman  he  now  loves  has 
passed,  and  when  his  memory  recalls  the  wife  who  had 
so  fondly  loved  him. 

Again  she  turns  impatiently  to  Pisanio.  ;^ut  Pisanio  utterly 
refuses  to  strike  her.  "Why,  then,"  she  asks,  "have  you 
brought  me  so  far  from  court  to  change  your  purpose  ?  " 

"  My  end  was  to  gain  time,"  is  the  substance  of  his  an- 
swer ;  "  I  never  meant  to  do  it." 

Her  petulance  with  old  Pisanio  is  most  touching.  It 
shows  her  very  nature  overthrown,  or  rather  (for  Imogen 
could  be  impatient  at  times)  it  shows  how  the  restraints  that 
ordinarily  kept  her  temper  in  check  have  been  swept  away. 

"  Madam,"  says  Pisanio,  "  I  thought  you  would  not  back 
again." 

"Most  like,"  replies  Imogen,  "bringing  me  here  to  kill 
me." 

Then  Pisanio,  at  last  obtaining  a  hearing,  assures  her  that 
his  master  has  been  misled  by  some  unnatural  villain.  He 
unfolds  to  her  his  plan.     He  has  provided  boy's  raiment  for 


Cymbeline,  425 


her.  She  can  in  this  disguise  make  her  way  to  Milford 
Haven,  thence  to  Rome  in  the  train  of  the  ambassador 
Caius  Lucius,  and  being  in  Rome  she  will  find  herself 
near  Posthumus,  and  can  herself  unravel  the  mystery. 
Posthumus  shall  meanwhile  receive  from  Pisanio  some 
bloody  sign  that  his  commands  have  been  executed. 
Imogen  exclaims  :  — 

Through  peril  to  my  modesty,  not  death  on 't, 
1  would  adventure. 

Then  Pisanio  gives  her  his  instructions  :  — 

You  must  forget  to  be  a  woman  ;  change 
Command  into  obedience  ;  fear  and  niceness 
(The  handmaids  of  all  women,  or,  more  truly, 
Woman  its  pretty  self)  to  a  waggish  courage ; 
Ready  in  gibes,  quick-answered,  saucy,  and 
As  quarrelous  as  the  weasel. 

And  last  of  all,  she  must  forget  that  care  in  dress  which, 
princess  as  she  is,  has  ever  distinguished  her.  How  little 
fitted  Imogen  was  to  act  up  to  Pisanio's  instructions  is  shown 
in  the  sequel. 

At  parting  Pisanio  presents  her  with  the  box  of  medicines 
given  to  him  by  the  Queen.  Should  she  be  sea-sick  while 
travelling  to  Rome,  or  stomach-qualmed  on  land,  "  a  drachm 
of  this,"  he  says,  "will  drive  away  distemper." 

Scene  5. 

This  scene  is  in  Cymbeline's  palace.  The  Ambassador 
from   Rome   here   takes   his   leave. 

In  presence  of  war,  Cloten,  who  seems  not  to  be  wanting 
in  personal  courage,  assumes  something  like  dignity.  Cym- 
beline,  missing  Imogen  on  this  occasion  of  state,  and  very 


426  Cymdelme. 


fussy  upon  points  of  respect  due  to  himself,  has  his  daughter 
sent  for.  The  Queen,  dreading  collision  between  the  Prin- 
cess and  her  father,  which  may  injure  her  own  plans,  says  :  — 

'Beseech  your  majesty, 
Forbear  sharp  speeches  to  her ;  she  's  a  lady 
So  tender  of  rebukes  that  words  are  strokes, 
And  strokes  death  to  her. 

Alas  !  poor  Imogen.  We  may  judge  from  this  how  dread- 
ful it  must  have  been  to  her  to  be  called  vile,  coarse  names 
in  her  husband's  letter  to  Pisanio.  As  she  herself  said  on 
reading  them,  "  Mine  ear  itself  can  take  no  deeper  wound." 

But  Imogen  is  gone.  She  cannot  answer  her  father's  sum- 
mons, and  Cymbeline  rages,  while  the  Queen  coolly  calcu- 
lates that  she  may  now  have  it  in  her  power  to  bestow  the 
crown  of  Britain. 

As  Cloten  is  questioning  within  himself  whether  he  most 
loves  or  most  hates  Imogen,  Pisanio  returns.  Being  cross- 
questioned  by  Cloten  with  his  usual  upstart  impudence,  he 
shows  him  Posthumus's  letter  to  his  wife,  which  he  had  picked 
up  when  she  tore  those  cherished  letters  from  her  bosom.  By 
this  Cloten  believes  he  learns  that  she  has  gone  to  meet  Post- 
humus  at  Milford  Haven.  Clumsily  endeavoring  to  attach 
Pisanio  to  himself  by  flattery  and  money,  he  goes  on  to  re- 
quest of  him  a  suit  of  Posthumus's  clothes,  which  Pisanio 
brings  him.  I  fancy  the  old  man  was  not  willing  to  quarrel 
with  Cloten  lest  his  ability  to  help  Imogen  should  be 
curtailed. 

Scene  6. 

The  story  now  returns  to  Imogen.  Unused  to  mountain- 
walking,  she  had  failed  to  reach  Milford  Haven,  which  was  in 


Cymbeline.  427 


sight  when  Pisanio  left  her,  and  wandering  up  and  down  the 
hills,  she  has  come  after  two  days  spent  on  foot,  and  two 
nights  passed  in  the  woods,  to  the  cave  of  Belarius.  Two 
beggars,  whom  she  doubtless  had  relieved  with  money,  had 
told  her  that  she  could  not  miss  her  way,  but  she,  poor  Prin- 
cess, in  her  inexperience,  had  missed  it.  And  now  her 
heart  has  gone  back  to  Posthumus ;  again  she  calls  him  her 
"  dear  lord."  Perceiving  the  cave,  she  peers  into  it  timidly. 
She  dreads  rough  men,  she  dreads  wild  beasts,  as,  holding 
her  sword  awkwardly  before  her,  she  creeps  through  the 
doorway. 

Shortly  after,  the  brothers  and  Belarius  return  hungry  and 
weary.  There  is  cold  meat  in  the  cave,  and  they  will  stay 
their  appetites  on  that  till  they  can  cook  their  supper.  Glanc- 
ing into  the  cave,  however,  they  perceive  something  that 
Belarius  calls  a  fairy,  an  angel,  a  paragon.  As  he  speaks, 
Imogen,  hearing  voices,  comes  forth. 

Judge  how  like  her  speech  is  to  that  of  a  quarrelsome  and 
saucy  page  :  — 

Imogen.    Good  masters,  harm  me  not. 
Before  I  entered  here,  I  called ;  and  thought 
To  have  begged,  or  bought,  what  I  have  took.     Good  troth, 
I  have  stolen  nought ;  nor  would  not,  though  I  had  found 
Gold  strewed  o'  the  floor.     Here  's  money  for  my  meat. 
I  would  have  left  it  on  the  board  so  soon 
As  I  had  made  my  meal ;  and  parted 
With  prayers  for  the  provider. 

Guiderius.  Money,  youth  ? 

Arviragus.     All  gold  and  silver  rather  turn  to  dirt ! 
As  'tis  no  better  reckoned,  but  of  those 
Who  worship  dirty  gods. 

Imogen.  I  see  you  are  angry. 

Know,  if  you  kill  me  for  my  fault,  I  should 
Have  died  had  I  not  made  it. 


428  Cymbeline, 


Belarius.  Whither  bound  ? 

Imogen.    To  Milford  Haven,  sir. 

Belarius.  What  is  your  name  ? 

Imogen.     Fidele,  sir.     I  have  a  kinsman  who 
Is  bound  for  Italy  ;  he  embarked  at  Milford  ; 
To  whom  being  going,  almost  spent  with  hunger, 
I  am  fallen  in  this  offence. 

Belarius.  Prithee,  fair  youth, 

Think  us  no  churls ;  nor  measure  our  good  minds 
By  this  rude  place  we  live  in.     Well  encountered ! 
'T  is  almost  night :  you  shall  have  better  cheer 
Ere  you  depart ;  and  thanks,  to  stay  and  eat  it. 
Boys,  bid  him  welcome. 

Then  Guiderius,  the  elder,  says  he  would  have  made  his 
suit  to  the  lad  if  he  had  been  a  woman,  but  Arviragus,  not  so 
much  a  man  as  his  elder  brother,  hails  Fidele  as  a  comrade. 
Suddenly  something  inspires  in  Imogen  a  remembrance  of 
her  brothers.  She  wishes  they  were  living.  Were  she  not 
heiress  to  a  kingdom,  she  would  be  more  an  equal  match 
"for  thee,  Posthumus."  Hope  has  returned  to  her  heart. 
Surely,  things  must  yet  come  right  between  her  and  him  she 
used  to  honor  as  well  as  love. 

Scene  7. 

We  now  learn  that  messengers  have  been  sent  from  Rome 
to  intercept  Caius  Lucius,  and  to  order  him  to  undertake  the 
war  with  Britain.  They  bear  him  his  appointment  as  pro- 
consul. 

Aci'  IV.     Scene  i. 

Cloten,  imagining  that  Posthumus  is  by  appointment  to 
meet  Imogen  in  those  Welsh  woods,  hopes  to  meet  her  first, 
and  in  Posthumus's  clothes  to  deceive  and  ruin  her.  Her 
humiliation  being  accomplished,    and   her   husband    killed 


Cymbeline,  429 


before  her  eyes,  Cloten  brutally  proposes  to  drive  this  fair 

creature  home  before  him  to  her  father.     Surely,  we  need 

not  count  "  Cymbeline  "  a  tragedy  because  this  wretch's  death 

was  near  at  hand. 

Scene  2. 

Imogen  is  sick,  and  is  recommended  by  her  kind  hosts  to 
remain  in  the  cave  while  they  go  forth  to  hunt.  Each 
brother,  however,  offers  to  stay  with  her.  Old  Belarius,  who 
has  tended  them  so  faithfully  for  years,  is  not  a  little  hurt 
that  both  boys  should  profess  that  they  already  love  the 
stranger  as  well  as  they  do  him.  I  think  he  suspects  Imogen's 
sex,  too,  and  is  anxious  about  the  love  professed  for  her  by 
Guiderius. 

Then  these  "  kind  creatures  "  being  gone,  Imogen  takes 
out  the  Queen's  box,  and  swallows  a  portion  of  her  drug. 
We  learn  from  the  boys'  talk  that  already  Imogen's  singing, 
her  dainty  cookery,  and  gentle,  housewifely  ways  have  made 
home  charming  to  them. 

In  comes  Cloten,  —  not  a  very  young  man,  for  Belarius 
recognizes  him.  Belarius  is  fearful  of  being  pursued,  and 
discovered.  While  he  and  Arviragus  search  the  neighboring 
brushwood  to  see  if  the  new  comer  be  attended  by  soldiers, 
Guiderius  remains  to  parley  with  him.  The  brave  young 
mountaineer  is  not  used  to  be  addressed  with  the  insolence 
with  which  Cloten  always  speaks  to  those  he  considers  his 
inferiors.  He  gives  him  back  word  for  word.  Finally,  they 
come  to  blows.  Guiderius  is  conqueror,  and  cuts  off  Cloten's 
head.  Belarius  is  greatly  alarmed  at  this  exploit,  though 
Guiderius  himself  exults  in  it,  having  slain  his  foe  only  in  self- 
defence  ;  and  Arviragus  sustains  him,  saying,  "  My  brother 
hath  done  well." 


430  Cymbeline. 


An  Eolian  harp,  invented  by  Belarius,  here  begins  to  play, 
as  Arviragus,  who  has  been  into  the  cave,  comes  out  bearing 
Imogen  lifeless  in  his  arms.  The  lament  made  over  the  sup- 
posed corpse  is  very  beautiful.  Arviragus,  the  poet  by 
nature,  says  :  — 

With  fairest  flowers, 
Whilst  summer  lasts,  and  I  live  here,  Fidele, 
I  '11  sweeten  thy  sad  grave.     Thou  shalt  not  lack 
The  flower  that 's  like  thy  face,  pale  primrose  ;  nor 
The  azured  hare-bell,  like  thy  veins ;  no,  nor 
The  leaf  of  eglantine,  whom  not  to  slander, 
Out-sweetened  not  thy  breath  ;  the  red-breast  would, 
With  charitable  bill  (O  bill,  sore-shaming 
Those  rich-left  heirs  that  let  their  fathers  lie 
Without  a  monument !  ),  bring  thee  all  this  ; 
Yea,  and  furred  moss  besides,  when  flowers  are  none, 
To  winter-ground  thy  corse. 

Guiderius.  Prithee,  have  done, 

And  do  not  play  in  wench-like  words  with  that 
Which  is  so  serious.     Let  us  bury  him. 

Guiderius,  who  has  just  fleshed  his  maiden  sword,  naturally 
turns  upon  his  brother  for  any  touch  of  womanliness  ;  besides 
his  own  grief  is  deep  and  cannot  bear  mere  words. 

Belarius  persuades  them  both  to  include  the  body  of 
Cloten  in  their  funeral  ceremonies,  for  they  have  decided  to 
bury  dead  Fidele  as  they  buried  their  nurse,  Euriphile,  whom 
they  believed  to  be  their  mother.  Here  is  another  little 
touch  showing  us  their  religious  training,  and  Shakspeare's 
religious  delicacy  in  hinting  only  at  holy  things.  They  are 
preparing  Imogen's  body  for  sepulchre,  and  Guiderius  says  : 

My  brother,  we  must  lay  his  head  to  the  east, 
My  father  hath  a  reason  for  it. 


The  song  they  sing  is  a  lovely  one  :  — 


Cymbeline,  431 


Song. 

Guiderius,     Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun, 

Nor  the  furious  winter's  rages ; 
Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done, 

Home  art  gone,  and  ta'en  thy  wages. 
Golden  lads  and  girls  all  must. 
As  chimney-sweepers,  come  to  dust. 
Af-viragus.     Fear  no  more  the  frown  o'  the  great ; 

Thou  art  past  the  tyrant's  stroke. 
Care  no  more  to  clothe,  and  eat ; 

To  thee  the  reed  is  as  the  oak. 
The  sceptre,  learning,  physic,  must 
All  follow  this,  and  come  to  dust. 

But  the  song  generally  sung  in  this  place  on  the  stage  is  an 
interpolation  by  Collins. 

They  leave  the  bodies  strewn  with  flowers,  meaning  to 
bury  them  at  set  of  sun. 

When  they  have  gone,  Imogen,  who  had  drunk — not 
poison,  but  —  the  sleeping-draught  prepared  by  Dr.  Cornelius, 
awakes  bewildered.  She  thinks  she  must  have  dreamed  that 
she  was  a  cave-keeper  and  cook  to  honest  creatures.  Then 
suddenly  she  sees  lying  at  her  side  a  headless  man,  and  his 
clothes  are  the  clothes  of  her  Posthumus.  At  once  her  fury 
breaks  out  against  Pisanio.  He  has  conspired  with  Cloten ; 
he  has  deceived  her  husband  and  herself.  "  O,  damned 
Pisanio!"  she  exclaims  again  and  again.  *'0,  damned 
Pisanio  !  '* 

As,  all  bloody,  she  lies  stretched  upon  the  corpse  (we 
grudge  Cloten  each  tear  that  she  sheds  over  him),  Caius 
Lucius,  the  Roman  general,  and  his  soldiers  come  by.  They 
raise  the  boy,  and  ask  his  name.     Imogen  replies  :  — 

I  am  nothing ;  or  if  not. 
Nothing  to  be  were  better.    This  was  my  master, 


432  Cymbeline. 


A  very  valiant  Briton,  and  a  good, 

That  here  by  mountaineers  lies  slain.     Alas  ! 

There  are  no  more  such  masters.     I  may  wander 

From  east  to  Occident,  cry  out  for  service. 

Try  many,  all  good,  serve  truly,  never 

Find  such  another  master. 

And  when  she  has  to  give  him  a  fictitious  name  the  false- 
hood troubles  her.  She  puts  up  a  little  prayer  that  she  may 
be  forgiven.  The  Romans,  touched  with  her  fidelity  and 
grief,  assist  her  with  their  pikes  and  partisans,  to  bury  the 
dead  body;  and  Lucius,  with  kind  words,  takes  her  as  a 
page  into  his  service. 

Scene  3. 

The  Queen,  with  all  her  brain  and  all  her  scheming,  is  meet- 
ing her  just  punishment,  —  she  lies  stricken  with  mortal  sick- 
ness ;  and  Cymbeline, surrounded  by  enemies,  and  accustomed 
always  to  lean  on  somebody,  now  mourns  for  Imogen. 
Troubles  too  are  thickening  about  him  from  the  Roman  inva- 
sion. Pisanio  has  received  no  news  from  Rome  since  he 
sent  tidings  of  Imogen's  death  to  Posthumus ;  no  word  has 
come  from  Imogen,  and  Cloten  has  sunk  out  of  sight  utterly. 
"  Wherein  I  'm  false  I  'm  honest,"  he  says ;  "  not  true  to  be 
true." 

Scene  4. 

The  two  young  Princes,  not  knowing  their  high  birth,  are 
urging  Belarius  to  let  them  go  to  the  war.  He  sees  plainly, 
with  fear  and  trembling,  that  he  cannot  withhold  them  longer. 

Act  V.     Scene  i. 

Here  we  see  Posthumus,  dressed  as  a  Roman  soldier,  with 
the  handkerchief  supposed  to  be  stained  with  his  wife's  blood 


Cymbeline,  433 


in  his  hand.  "  Alas  !  "  he  cries,  "  if  every  married  man  should 
take  my  course,  how  many  men  would  murder  wives  far 
better  than  themselves  !  "  He  reproaches  the  gods  that  they 
had  not  saved  the  noble  Imogen  to  repent,  and  struck  him, 
the  wretch  more  worthy  of  their  vengeance.  But  Imogen, 
he  reflects  afterwards,  is  now  "  all  heaven's  own."  He  prays, 
"  Ye  gods,  do  your  blest  wills  and  make  me  blessed  to  obey." 
He  has  come  over  to  Britain  with  the  Romans,  but  now 
he  will  desert  them,  and  take  part  with  British  men.  He 
has  done  Britain  wrong  enough  in  having  killed  iier  future 
Queen ;  now  he  will  fight  for  Britain. 

So  I  '11  die 
For  thee,  O  Imogen !  e'en  for  whom  my  life 
Is,  every  breath,  a  death. 

With  that  he  changes  his  Roman  armor  for  the  suit  of  a 

British  peasant. 

Scene  2. 

This  is  the  scene  of  the  battle.  In  the  foreground  Posthu- 
mus,  as  a  Briton,  fights  with  lachimo,  the  Roman.  Posthumus 
vanquishes  and  disarms  lachimo,  but  with  a  generosity  born 
of  his  repentance,  turns  aside  and  spares  him.  lachimo 
thinks  that  he  has  lost  his  skill  in  arms  because  the  gods  are 
angry  at  him  for  his  sin  against  a  noble  lady.  Here  ceases 
my  parallel  between  lachimo  and  De  Marsay.  lachimo  had 
faith  enough  to  lead  him  to  repentance ;  the  Frenchman  of 
the  nineteenth  century  had  not  so  much  faith  as  the  devils 
have,  who  have  enough  to  make  them  tremble. 

The  Britons  are  getting  worsted,  when  Belarius  and  his 
boys  break  in  and  change  the  fortunes  of  the  day.  Cymbe- 
line  is  rescued  by  thek  prowess,  seconded  by  that  of 
Posthumus. 

28 


434  Cymbeline. 


Scene  3. 

Here  Posthumus  describes  to  a  British  lord  how  Belarius 
and  his  boys  held  a  narrow  lane  against  the  whole  Roman 
army.  It  is  Horatius,  Herminius,  and  Lartius  over  again. 
Posthumus,  not  having  been  able  to  lose  his  life  in  battle, 
resolves  to  yield  himself  to  the  first  man  he  sees.  If  a 
Roman  he  will  be  executed  as  a  deserter,  if  a  Briton  he  is 
no  less  sure  of  death  as  soon  as  he  has  told  his  name. 

The  first  persons  who  enter  are  Britons.  They  are  talking 
of  Posthumus's  own  brilliant  deeds.  He  surrenders  to  them 
as  an  obscure  Roman. 

Scene  4. 

We  now  see  Posthumus  deeply  penitent  and  in  prison. 
He  dreams  that  his  father,  mother,  and  brave  brothers  — 
none  of  whom  he  ever  knew  —  come  round  him  in  a  vision  ; 
while  grieving  for  his  fault,  they  deal  with  it  gently,  and 
pray  the  gods  for  his  forgiveness.  I  presume  that  this  scene, 
which  is  conducted  in  recitative,  added  to  the  musical  attrac- 
tions of  the  play ;  it  does  not  improve  it  as  a  story  or  a 

drama. 

He  shall  be  lord  of  Lady  Imogen, 

And  happier  much  by  his  afflictions  made, 

is  Jupiter's  answer  to  the  prayers  offered  up  by  his  ghostly 
kindred.  Waking,  Posthumus  is  about  to  be  led  to  execu- 
tion, when  an  order  arrives  to  knock  off  his  fetters,  and  bring 
him  before  the  King. 

Scene  5. 
King  Cymbeline  has  discovered  three  of  the  brave  men 
who  saved  the  fortunes  of  the  day,  —  Belarius,  Guiderius, 
and  Arviragus;   the   fourth  is  still  wanting.     The    King   is 


Cymbeline.  435 


surrounded  by  his  court,  his  lords,  and  his  deliverers.  Here 
enter  messengers  to  say  the  Queen  is  dead.  Not  only 
is  she  dead,  but  she  has  confessed  her  crimes  and  evil 
purposes  upon  her  death-bed. 

Then  the  Roman  prisoners  are  brought  in,  among  them 
Imogen,  as  a  page  in  attendance  upon  Caius  Lucius,  who 
makes  a  noble  Roman  speech,  ending  with  these  words  :  — 

This  one  thing  only 
I  will  entreat :   my  boy,  a  Briton  born, 
Let  him  be  ransomed.     Never  master  had 
A  page  so  kind,  so  duteous,  diligent, 
So  tender  over  his  occasions,  true, 
So  feat,  so  nurse-like  ;  let  his  virtue  join 
With  my  request,  which,  I  '11  make  bold,  your  highness 
Cannot  deny ;  he  hath  done  no  Briton  harm. 
Though  he  hath  served  a  Roman.     Save  him,  sir, 
And  spare  no  blood  beside. 

Cymbeline,  moved  by  the  looks  of  the  page,  touched  by 
the  speech  of  Lucius,  and  willing  to  do  a  generous  thing 
gracefully,  not  only  gives  the  boy  his  liberty,  but  promotes 
him  to  his  favor,  and  tells  him  to  ask  a  boon,  suggesting  that 
it  should  be  the  Hfe  of  a  prisoner.  Neither  Cymbeline  nor 
any  one  else  doubts  that  the  lad  will  ask  the  life  of  Lucius. 
Indeed,  that  generous  Roman  says,  — 

I  do  not  bid  thee  beg  my  life,  good  lad ; 
And  yet  I  know  thou  wilt. 

But  Imogen  has  seen  lachimo  in  the  crowd  of  prisoners. 
On  his  finger  gleams  her  own  ring.  She  stands  gazing  at 
him  speechless.  Finally,  she  requests  a  moment's  private 
interview  with  Cymbeline.  I  think  she  then  suggests  that 
the   ring   the   Roman  wears   is  the   valuable   diamond  of 


43^  Cymbelme. 


Cymbeline's  first  wife;  for  he  comes  back  eager  to  know 
its  history. 

Then  lachimo,  conscience-stricken  and  in  deadly  super- 
stitious terror,  tells,  with  much  verbiage  and  many  flatteries, 
by  which  he  hopes  to  appease  the  British  King,  the  story 
of  his  guilt,  and  wholly  exonerates  Imogen.  As  he  is  say- 
ing, speaking  of  Posthumus,  "  Methinks  I  see  him  now,  —  " 
''  Thou  dost ! "  exclaims  Posthumus,  starting  forward  and 
confronting  him.  Then  the  unhappy  husband  goes  on  to 
call  down  vengeance  of  all  kinds  upon  himself.     As  he  cries, 

O  Imogen ! 
My  queen,  my  life,  my  wife !     O  Imogen, 
Imogen,  Imogen  ! 

she,  standing  by,  can  bear  it  no  longer,  but  springs  forward 
to  comfort  him.  He  thinks  the  Roman  page  means  only  to 
make  sport  of  his  great  misery.  He  strikes  her,  and  she 
falls.     Then  Pisanio  starts  forward  with, 

O  my  Lord  Posthumus  I 
You  ne'er  killed  Imogen  till  now.     Help,  help  ! 
Mine  honored  lady!: 

Posthumus  staggers  backward.  He  dares  not  clasp  his  wife ; 
he  dares  not  understand  what  is  now  passing  round  him. 
Cymbeline  begins  to  thank  the  gods  ;  but  Imogen,  recovering 
herself,  repulses  Pisanio  as  a  would-be  poisoner.  Then  Dr. 
Cornelius  makes  that  misunderstanding  straight.  Guiderius 
and  Arviragus  with  amazement  recognize  the  dead  Fidele. 
CymbeHne  tells  Imogen  her  **  mother's  dead."  With  gentle 
dignity  she  says,  "  I  'm  sorry  for  it,  sir."  Cloten  too  is 
missing.  Then  Pisanio  again  steps  forward,  and  tells  how 
he  lent  him  a  suit  of  Posthumus's  clothes,  in  which  he  set 


Cymbeline.  437 


forth  to  Milford  to  surprise  Imogen,  and  bring  her  to  dis- 
honor.    Here  Guiderius  breaks  in  with, — 

•  Let  me  end  the  story  : 

I  slew  him  there. 

Cymbeline  is  greatly  discomposed,  not  only  by  the  death 
of  Cloten,  but  by  the  necessity  the  law  lays  upon  him  of 
condemning  to  death  an  inferior  who  has  slain  a  man  of 
rank  higher  than  his  own.  Guiderius,  prince-like,  sticks  to 
the  truth.  He  has  done  the  deed,  and  he  is  not  ashamed 
of  it.  Cloten  deserved  his  death,  and  got  it.  Then  Belarius 
reveals  the  parentage  of  his  adopted  sons. 

All  this  while    Imogen   and   Posthumus   are   clasped   in 

each  other's   arms.     Cymbeline,   as  he   acknowledges  the 

young  heroes   for  his  heirs   and  children,  says   somewhat 

regretfully :  — 

O  Imogen  1 
Thou  hast  lost  by  this  a  kingdom. 

Imogen.  No,  my  lord  ; 

I  have  got  two  worlds  by 't. 

And  after  loving  greetings  to  her  brothers,  she  hails  Bela- 
rius as  another  father,  thus  disposing  the  heart  of  Cymbeline 
towards  him. 

She  next,  having  secured  pardon  for  Belarius,  turns  to 
Lucius,  whose  fate  she  had  all  along  known  would  be  in  her 
hands.  Cymbeline  has  but  one  regret  in  all  this  happiness, 
—  he  cannot  find  the  forlorn  soldier  who  aided  his  brave 
sons  and  their  foster-father  to  guard  the  lane. 

Posthumus  avows  himself  that  soldier.  "  Pardon,"  cries 
Cymbeline,  "is  the  word  for  all."  Even  lachimo  is  par- 
doned ;  and  Cymbeline,  turning  to  Lucius,  not  only  offers 
him  his  freedom,  but  a  treaty  which  promises  to  Rome  the 


438  Cymbeline. 

0^  ^^   very  tribute  in  dispute.     This  is  the  usual  ending  to  any 
^       ^  f__English  war.     England,  it  is  said,  always  in  her  European 
^^        ^conflicts  triumphs  in  arms,  and  makes  peace  by  giving»back 
j^t^     all,  and  more  than  all,  that  she  contended  for. 
*  Though  there  is  very  little  of  the  comic  element  in  this 

^»  play,  it  seems  impossible  with  such  an  ending  to  call  "  Cym- 

beline "  a  tragedy.  It  is  rather  an  exquisite  and  composite 
romantic  drama,  with  its  scene  laid  so  far  back  in  the  dim 
past  that  manners,  incidents,  and  probabilities  are  all  removed 
out  of  the  realm  of  fact,  and  are  moulded  at  the  poet's  will 
by  liis  creative  fancy. 


INDEX. 


INDEX, 


Actors,  their  practice  o£  soliciting  the 
patronage  of  the  lord  of  the  manor,  133  ; 
their  disadvantages,  in,  127. 

Adam,  the  old  retainer,  232,  251;  Cole- 
ridge's apostrophe  to  the  actor  who 
bore  him,  256;  Adam  and  Jaqiies  con- 
trasted, 253. 

Ague-cheek,  Sir  Andrew,  294,  297,  298 ; 
Charles  Lamb  on,  297,  298. 

American  exiled  loyahsts,  415. 

American  rich  men,  345. 

"  Amours  in  Quatorzains,"  Michael  Dray- 
ton's, 152. 

Anglo-Saxon  Saints'  legends,  93,  94. 

Antonio,  the  merchant  of  Venice,  339, 
340,  343.  344»  347.  367,  375- 

Antonio,  th«  sea-captain,  305,  330,  331. 

**  Apollonius  and  Silla,"  the  origin  of 
Twelfth  Night,  291. 

Arcady,  As  You  Like  It,  a  tale  of,  231. 

Arden,  Shakspeare's  mother's  maiden 
name,  247 ;  forest  of,  247. 

Ardennes,  the  Enchanted  Forest  in  the 
"  Orlando  Furioso,"  247. 

Ariel,  57,  58,  64,  82;  Coleridge  on,  64; 
Hazlitt  on,  82. 

Ariosto,  Shakspeare's  acquaintance  with 
the  writings  of,  64,  131,  181,  247. 

Armada,  allusion  to  the  wreck  of,  419,  420. 

Arviragus,  his  poetical  temperament,  422. 

Astrologers  in  Shakspeare's  day,  84,  85. 

As  Yojc  Like  It,  a  tale  of  Arcady,  231  ; 
its  origin,  231 ;  its  supposed  moral,  231 ; 
Victor  Hugo's  idea  of,  287. 

Autolycus,  28,  29  ;  contents  of  his  basket, 
36. 

Audrey,  269,  280. 

Ayrer,  Jacob,  author  of  "  Die  Schbne 
Sidea,"  56  ;  plot  of  his  story,  56. 


Balzac,  201,  402,  408,  416,   417,  433 ; 

Coleridge's  remarks    on    Shakspeare's 

characters  applied  to,  91,  92. 
Bandello,  his  story,  the   origin  of  Much 

Ado  about  Nothing,  181. 
Baptista,  136;  Petruchio's  first  interview 

with,  143,  144. 
Bassanio,  340,  347. 
Beatrice,  189,  190,  191,  197,  198,  226,  227; 

"Monthly    Packet"     on,     181;    Lady 

Martin  on,  182,  183,  189,  190,  226,  227; 

contrasted  with  Katharine,  183. 
Belch,  Sir  Toby,  Maria,  and  Sir  Andrew 

Ague-cheek,  294,  295,  296,  297. 
Benedick,  184;  moved  by  the  sarcasms  of 

Beatrice,  194  ;  Lady  Martin  on  the  last 

encounter  of   wits    between    him  and 

Beatrice,  226,  227. 
Bermudas,  Strachey's  narrative  of  the  ship- 
wreck of  Sir  Thomas  Gates,  on  the,  57. 
Betrothals  of  Florizel  and  Perdita,  37  ;  of 

Olivia  and  Sebastian,  275;  possibly  of 

Rosalind  and  Orlando,  275. 
Bianca,  150. 

Biondello,  mistrusts  Tranio,  171. 
Boatswain  and  sailors,  59. 
Boccaccio,  origin  oi  Cymbeline  in  the  "De- 

camerone,"  394. 
Borachio,  the  bravo,  199. 
Bottom,ioi ;  Maginnon,  iir,  120, 12T,  127. 
Bug,  /.  e.  bugbear,  early  version  of  the 

Bible,  23. 

Cain  and  his  thornbush,  no. 

Cakes  and  ale  on  Saints'  days,  309. 

Caliban,  57,  58,  64,  72,  82;  the  mob  in- 
carnate, 56;  Coleridge  on,  64;  Hazlitt 
on,  72,  82  ;  Schlegel  on,  72. 

Campbell,  Thomas,  on  Viola,  385. 


442 


Index, 


Candlemas  Day,  291. 

Celia,  237,244,  245,  264,  269;  "Monthly 
Packet "  on,  237. 

Changes  of  scenery  on  Shakspeare's  stage, 
58,  306. 

Characters  in  Shakspeare  and  Balzac,  91, 
92  ;  those  that  are  wholly  Shakspeare's 
in  Much  Ado  about  Nothing,  181,  and 
As  You  Like  //",  231 ;  in  the  MercJiant 
of  Venice  all  have  flaws  but  Portia,  340. 

Chaucer  originated  Theseus  and  Hip- 
polyta,  95 ;  also  originated  Lodge's 
Rosalynde,  231. 

Claudio,  183,  184,  194,  209,  220,  221. 

Cloten,  410,  411,  425,  429. 

Cobwebs,  in. 

Coleridge,  S-  T.,  on  jealousy,  5,  6;  on 
Perdita,  39  ;  on  Ariel  and  Caliban,  64 ; 
on  Miranda,  60,  76,  77 ;  on  Prospero's 
narrative,  61  ;  on  conspiracy  scenes  in 
Tempest,  74 ;  on  drunken  scene  in 
Tempest,  80  ;  on  Shakspeare's  modesty 
and  morality,  76,  77,  82  ;  on  the  sense 
of  maternity  and  ancestry  in  good  wo- 
men, 64  ;  his  remarks  on  Shakspeare's 
characters  applied  to  Balzac,  91,  92  ;  on 
Puck's  song,  127  ;  on  Shakspeare's  sce- 
nery, 250;  on  Adam,  256;  apostrophe 
to  the  actor  who  bore  Adam,  256. 

Collins,  author  of  the  dirge  commonly 
sung  over  Imogen,  431. 

Complaints  of  servants  in  Shakspeare's 
day,  251. 

Confidants,  Shakspeare's  compared  with 
those  of  French  tragedy,  17. 

Conspiracy  scenes  in  Tempest,  71,  80. 

Cymbeline,  Hazlitt  on,  393  ;  not  a  tragedy, 
though  almost  one,  394,  429,  438;  why 
never  a  popular  acting-play,  394  ;  on 
what  founded,  394  ;  its  scenery,  date,  and 
semi-paganism,  394  ;  passage  suggested 
by  the  fate  of  the  Armada,  419,  420. 

Dances,  modem  application  of  jig,  meas- 
ure, and  cinque-pace,  192. 

Demetnus,  no  gentleman,  106. 

Disadvantages  of  actors,  iii,  127. 

Dogberry,  209  ;   as  a  country  justice,  217. 

Don  John,  188. 

Don  Pedro,  187. 

Drayton,  Michael,  his  Poly-Olbion,  95, 
152  ;  his  ballad  of  Agincourt,  152  ;  his 
"Amours  in  Quatorzains,"  152. 


Dreams,  sleep,  and  moonlight  in  Midsum- 
mer Nighfs  Dream,  91,  96,  103,  109, 
123 ;  Posthumus'  dream,  part  of  the 
musical  attractions  of  Cymbeline,  434. 

Drunken  scene  in  Tempest,  Coleridge  on, 
80. 

Ducdam6,  256. 

Elizabeth,  Queen  of  Bohemia,  Tempest 

performed  at  her  nuptials,  55. 
Elizabeth,  Queen  of  England,  pageant  at 

Keniiworth,  Shakspeare  prbbably  there, 

105. 
English  marriages  only  lawful  in  parish 

churches,  269. 
English  wars,  their  usual  termination,  438. 
Exhortation  to  read  Shakspeare,  334. 
Extravagant  expressions  of  Petruchio  and 

Katharine,  no  criterion  of  Shakspeare's 

real  opinion  of  the  relations  between 

men  and  women,  168,  169. 

Fairies,  without  characters,  93  ;  gnomes, 
kobolds,  elves,  and  fairies,  93,  94  ;  five 
species  of  fairies,  95  ;  Gervinus  on,  103, 
104 ;  difference  between  ghosts  and, 
119  ;  all  purity,  120. 

Faucit,  Miss  Helen,  394.  See  Lady 
Martin. 

Ferdinand,  Mrs.  Jameson  on,  76. 

Feste,  Olivia's  fool,  299.         • 

Fidelity,  408. 

Floods  in  England  in  1595,  105. 

Fools,  238,  299,  318,  319,  395;  receive 
money,  327. 

Gentlemen  messengers,  185,  186. 
Germanisms  in  Shylock's  English,  381. 
"  Geruntius,  the  Jew  of  Venice,"  ballad 

of,  340. 
Gervinus  on  fairies,  103,   104 ;  on  Portia, 

377  ;  his  hatred  of  the  Jews,  356. 
"  Gesta  Romanorum,"  340. 
Goethe  on  Shakspeare's  metaphors,  293. 
Greene,  Richard,  author  of  a  story  that 

originated  the  Winter^s  Tale,  3. 
Gratiano,  347,  372,  390. 
Grumio,  157,  158. 
Guiderins,   his  princely  disposition,  421, 

429,  430,  437. 

Haberdasher,  184. 

Hamlet,    shghtly    indicated   in    Jaques, 


Index. 


443 


248,  343 ;  compared  with  Coleridge, 
248;  with  Antonio,  343. 

Hazlitt  on  seeing  Bannister,  Mrs.  Siddons, 
and  Mrs.  Jordan  act  Winter's  Tale.,  30  ; 
on  Caliban,  72,  82  ;  on  Ariel,  82  ;  on 
Tempest,  56,  102  ;  on  Shakspeare's 
songs,  85 ;  on  Midsummer  Nighfs 
Dream,  102  ;  on  Twelfth  Night,  291, 
335  ;  on    Cymbelitte,  Z9Z' 

Hermia,  118,  119. 

Hermione,  26 ;  Mrs.  Jameson  on,  6,  7  ; 
why  she  remained  sixteen  years  se- 
cluded from  her  husband,  27. 

Helena,  118,  119;  her  want  of  modesty, 
106. 

Hippolyta,  96. 

Holinshed,  parts  of  Cymbeline  suggested 
by,  395- 

Hortensio's  widow,  172 ;  her  impertinence 
to  Katharine,  173. 

Hugo,  Victor,  on  Jaques,  247 ;  his  idea  of 
As  You  Like  It,  287. 

Humility,  Bishop  Griswold  on,  loi. 

Hunters,  their  life  contrasted  with  that  of 
Arden,  395,  422. 

Iachimo  compared  to  Balzac's  De  Marsay, 
402,  408,  416,  417,  433. 

Imogen,  393,  396,  413,  414,  415,  423,  424, 
425,  426,  427,  428,  431,  432;  Mrs. 
Jameson  on,  393,  400  ;  Lady  Martin  on, 
406, 407  ;  her  farewell  compared  to  those 
of  Juliet  and  Cressida,  400 ;  why  she 
desired  a  private  interview  with  Cymbe- 
line, 434. 

Induction  to  Taming  of  the  Shrew,  131; 
the  lord,  133  ;  the  actors  probably  im- 
provised their  parts,  177. 

In  memoriam,  362. 

Irish  rats  berhymed,  264. 

Ivy  fatal  to  sheep,  26. 

Jameson,  Mrs.  Anna,  "  Characteristics 
of  Women,"  on  Hermione,  6,  7  ;  on  the 
last  scene  in  the  Winter'' s  Tale,  48,  49, 
50  ;  on  Paulina,  17  ;  on  Perdita,  32,  39  ; 
on  Miranda,  60,  6t ;  on  Ferdinand,  76 ; 
on  Prospero,  84  ;  on  Rosalind,  236,  237  ; 
on  Portia,  341,  342  ;  on  Olivia,  324  :  on 
Imogen,  393,  400. 

Jaques,  Victor  Hugo  on,  277;  Maginn 
on,  247 ;  of  the  same  type  as  Hamlet 
and  Coleridge,  248. 


Jealousy,  Coleridge  on,  5,  6. 

Jessica,  361,  362;  Stuart  Newton's  pic- 
tures of,  363. 

Jews,  their  past  and  present  status  in  the 
world  a  standing  miracle,  356,  357; 
great  statesmen  and  great  writers  above 
the  prejudices  of  the  ignorant,  358. 

Joking,  perpetual,  a  dangerous  sport,  225. 

Jonson,  Ben,  and  Shakspeare,  190. 

Katharine,  the  shrew,  139,  140,  145, 
151;  "  Monthly  Packet  "  on,  140,  143, 
170,  176,  179;  her  submission,  167,  168, 
169,  170,  174,  175,  176,  177. 

Lady  in  Proverbs  reflects  honor  on  her 
husband,  176. 

Lamb,  Charles,  on  Sir  Andrew  Ague- 
cheek,  297,  298. 

Law  of  marriage  in  England,  169 ;  law 
concerning  the  murder  of  a  social  supe- 
rior, 437  ;  law  punishing  adultery,  419. 

Leonato,  190,  212. 

Leontes,  9,  10,  11,  12,  24,  25,  43,  46. 

Linen  bleaching  on  hedges,  29. 

Lodge,  author  of  "  Rosalynde,"  231. 

Love  at  first  sight  in  As  You  Like  It,  273. 

Lucentio,  Hortensio,  and  Bianca, 
"  Monthly  Packet "  on,  150. 

Madrigal  Club  in  London,  102. 

Maginn  on  Bottom,  iii,  120,  121,  127; 
on  Jaques,  286,  287  ;  on  the  seven  ages 
of  man,  261. 

Malvolio,  292,  311  ;  a  Puritan,  311  ;  on 
Darwinism,  329. 

Maria,  294,  298,  299 ;  her  position  com- 
pared with  Nerissa's,  311. 

Martin,  Lady,  on  Beatrice,  182,  189,  190  ; 
on  the  last  encounter  of  wits  between 
Beatrice  and  Benedick,  226,  227 ;  on 
Rosalind,  236,  243,  266,  274 ;  on  the 
trial  scene  in  the  Merchant  of  Venice, 
380 ;  on  Pisanio,  405 ;  on  Imogen,  406, 
407. 

Masque,  in  Winter's  Tale,  37 ;  in  Tem- 
pest, 83  ;  in  Much  A  do  about  Nothing, 
225  ;  vci  As  You  Like  It,  286. 

Merchant  of  Venice,  Antonio,  339,  367  ; 
characters  in,  340;  supposed  leading 
idea  of,  339,  340  ;  why  the  fifth  act  was 
added,  388  ;  "  Monthly  Packet"  on  trial 
scene,  379,  380 ;  Lady  Martin  on,  380. 


444 


Index. 


Mercy,  mediseval  ideas  of,  387. 

Midsummer  Night's  Dream.,  91,  102, 
III,  112;  compared  with  Tempest^  56; 
dreams,  sleep,  and  moonlight  in,  91,  96, 
103,  109,  123;  no  elaborated  characters 
iu,  92;  when  printed,  95. 

Milton  on  Shakspeare,  124,  125. 

Minor  characters  in  Taming  of  the  Shrew 
conventional,  135. 

Misconception  of  women,  by  Leonato, 
Don  Pedro,  and  Claudio,  204,  205  ;  con- 
trasted with  the  tact  of  Hero  and  Ur- 
sula, 208. 

Miranda,  59,  60,  61,  69,  76,  77;  Mrs. 
Jameson  on,  60,  61  ;  Coleridge  on,  64. 

Misery,  real  in  contrast  with  sentimental, 
259,  260. 

Mobs,  80 ;  French,  English,  and  Ameri- 
can, 100  ;  Caliban  the  mob  incarnate,  58. 

Modern  application  of  jig,  measure,  and 
cinque-pace,  192. 

Montaigne,  passage  adapted  from,  71. 

"  Monthly  Packet,"  "  Shakspeare  Talks 
with  Uncritical  People,"  by  Constance 
O'Brian,  on  Katharine,  140;  on  Petru- 
chio's  first  interview  with  Baptista,  143, 
144 ;  on  Lucentio,  Hortensio,  and  Bi- 
anca,  150 ;  Petruchio  but  once  claims 
authority  to  force  Katharine  against 
her  will,  155,  156;  exaggerated  expres- 
sions of  Petruchio  and  Katharine  no 
criterion  of  Shakspeare's  real  opinions 
concerning  men  and  women,  168,  169  ; 
on  the  change  that  passes  over  Katha- 
rine, 170;  on  Much  Ado  about  Nothing, 
181;  on  Celia,  237,  269;  on  Rosalind, 
243,  266,  274  ;  on  the  wrestling  scene  in 
As  You  Like  It,  243,  244  ;  on  Sir  Toby, 
297,  298  ;  on  Viola,  297,  298 ;  on  last 
scene  in  Twelfth  Night,  334 ;  on  Portia, 
374.  375  ;  on  tr'^l  scene,  379,  380. 

Much  Ado  about  Nothing,  its  origin, 
181;  Ariosto's  episode  of  "Ariodante 
and  Ginevra,"  and  Bandello's  story, 
i8i ;  "Monthly  Packet"  on,  181. 

Names    of  Shakspeare's   Warwickshire 

neighbors,  135. 
Natures  that  though  fallen  retain  the  germ 

of  good,  270. 
Nerissa,  349,  390  ;  Gratiano,  probably  her 

former    lover,    372;     contrasted    with 

Maria,  311. 


Newton,  Stuart,  his  pictures  of  Jessica, 

363. 
Nick,  Old,  his  origin,  94. 

O'Brian,  Constance.  See  "Monthly 
Packet." 

Oliver,  his  apparently  inconsistent  char- 
acter, 232,  236,  251. 

Oliver  and  Orlando  change  places, 
282. 

Olivia,  292,  300,  304,  319,  320,  323,  344 ; 
Mrs.  Jameson  on,  324. 

Orange,  Seville,  197. 

Oriental  tales  brought  home  by  crusaders, 
131- 

Orlando,  232,  236,  251. 

Orsino,  Duke,  291,  332. 

Our  views  of  nature  modified  by  physical 
sensations,  257. 

Passion,  unreal,  291. 

Paulina,  17, 18, 43,  50,  51 ;  Mrs.  Jameson 

on,  17,  18. 
Peasants   distrustful  of   their  superiors, 

280. 
Petruchio,  143,  155,  156,  168,  169. 
Pisanio,    405,    420,    421 ;    his  report  to 

Imogen,   401,    402 ;    his  reflection  on 

himself,  432. 
Phebe  and  Silvius,  272. 
Philomela  and  Procene,  4x4. 
Pleached  bower,  205. 
Portia,  339,  341,  342,  369,  372,  374,  375  ; 

her  self-surrender,  369,  370,  371,  372  ; 

the  first  conception  of  her  plan,   376, 

377;  Gervinus  on,  377;  her  persistent 

attempts    to    obtain    some  excuse    for 

showing  Shylock  mercy,  383,  384,  385. 
Portrait  of  an  English  tourist,  352. 
Posthumus,  Leonatus,  396,  397,  417,  419; 

his  repentance,   432,  433  ;    his  dream 

part  of  the  operatic  attraction  in  Cymbe- 

line,  434. 
Prayer  in  Shakspeare,  412,  422,  430. 
Proverbs,  the  lady  in,  176. 
Proverbial  expression   derived    from  the 

cruelties  practised  on  Jews,  364. 
Puck,  origin  of  his  name,  95  ;  the  clown 

fairy,  104 ;  Coleridge  on  Puck's  song, 

127,  128. 

Riches  in  Merchant  of  Venice,  339,  340. 
Rich  men  in  America,  345. 


Index, 


445 


"Robin  Goodfellow,"  ballad,   attributed 

to,  95- 
Russia,  Sir  Thomas  Randolph's  embassy 
to,  48. 

Saviola,  author  of  a  treatise  on  "  Hu- 
mourous and  Honourable  Quarrels," 
284. 

"  Schbne  Sidea,  Die,"  56. 

Schlegel  on  Caliban,  72  ;  on  Shylock's 
speech,  380,  381. 

Sebastian  and  Viola  of  high  birth,  305  ; 
Sebastian  and  Olivia  betrothed,  330. 

Shakspeare,  Coleridge  on  his  modesty  and 
morality,  77,  82  ;  Coleridge  on  his  char- 
acters, 91,  92 ;  acquainted  with  the 
writings  of  Ariosto,  64,  131,  181,  247; 
extravagant  expressions  of  Katharine 
and  Petruchio,  no  criterion  of  his  real 
opinion  concerning  the  relations  between 
men  and  women,  168,  169 ;  on  the  ba}'- 
ing  of  hounds,  123  ;  Milton  on,  124, 
125  ;  on  his  knowledge  of  minute  things 
in  nature,  26  ;  his  dislike  to  parish  offi- 
cers, 209  ;  his  reverence  for  the  clergy, 
213;  his  wonderful  knowledge  of  girls' 
words  'and  ways,  264  ;  his  similes,  293  ; 
never  immoral,  335  ;  exhortation  to  read, 
334;  on  reading  his  plays  aloud,  334; 
reverence  for  prayer  and  holy  customs, 
412,  422,  430. 

Sly,  drunkard,  soldier,  and  adventurer, 
132. 

Songs  of  Shakspeare,  65,  85, 102, 108,  iii, 
iig,  127,  128,  255,  262,  263,  283,  307, 
313,  414;  Hazlitt  on,  85. 

Stage  setting  in  Shakspeare's  time,  58, 
306. 

Strachey,  William,  author  of  a  narrative 
of  Sir  Thomas  Gates's  shipwreck  on  the 
Bermudas  and  escape  to  Virginia,  57. 


Statues  tinted  in  the  Middle  Ages,  47. 

Superstition  from  which  rose  the  custom 
of  rough  shaving  on  crossing  the  line, 
84 ;  of  expelling  Irish  rats  by  rhymes, 
264. 

Swabber,  302. 

"Taming  of  a  Shrew,"  131. 

Taming  of  the  S^reiv,  131,  135. 

Tempest,  its  first  representation,  55  ; 
where  Shakspeare  found  its  story,  56, 
57 ;  compared  with  Midsummer  Night" s 
Dream,  56. 

Touchstone  on  court  and  country,  395. 

Tranio,  154,  161,  167. 

Tubal,  369. 

Twelfth  Night,  Candlemas  Day,  291 ; 
when  first  produced,  291 ;  Hazlitt  on, 
291,  335  ;  unexplained  allusions  in,  308  ; 
*'  Monthly  Packet "  on  last  scene,  334. 

Unreasonableness  of  lovers,  271. 
Unreal  misery,  259,  260. 
Unexplained  allusions  in  Twelfth  Nighty 
308. 

Viola,  293,  294,  300,  304,  324,  325,  326, 
328 ;  her  knowledge  of  sea  terms,  300, 
319  ;  Campbell  on,  335  ;  "  Monthly 
Packet "  on,  297,  298,  334,  335. 

Warren,  a,  196. 

Walpole,  Horace,  on  Henry  VIII.   and 

Anne  Boleyn  as  Florizel  and  Perdita,  4. 
Wrestling  scene  va.  As  You  Like  It,  243, 

244. 
Why  pure  women  often  misjudge  the  men 

they  love,  408. 
William,  Lady  Martin  on,  280. 
Working  men  in  Shakspeare,  100. 
Wright,   Thomas,  on   fairy    lore    in    the 

Middle  Ages,  93,  94. 


University  Press :  John  Wilson  &  Son,  Cambridge. 


^ 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

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